


Too Young to Fall Asleep

by kirevxl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Adorable Tony, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Suicide, Avengers are 18, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Emotional Whump, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Heartbreak, Howard Stark Is a Dick, Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, INTENSE TONY WHUMP, Insecure Tony Stark, Italian, Kidnapping, M/M, Maria Stark - Freeform, Misunderstood Tony, Motherly Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, S.H.I.E.L.D. College, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal tony, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony Has Issues, Tony Stark Defence Squad, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Tony Whump, Tony hurts so much I’m not even kidding, Tony is 15, abused Tony, cute tony, kidnapped tony, mainly pep rhodey clint and nat, platonic cuddles, self-hating tony, self-hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 50,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirevxl/pseuds/kirevxl
Summary: It’s the 16th of December, and Mr. Stark will be in a shitty mood.Tony curls more firmly around himself, absently rubbing at an old bruise, twistedly enjoying the persistent ache. He feels another pair of eyes on him and turns slowly to acknowledge Clint Barton’s pale blue gaze. He considers sticking his middle finger out, but then again he doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of Clint and his gang. Not just because Steve and Thor, buff and blonde honchos, are more than capable of making him miserable (anyone on their team could, really, even - no, especially the redhead Natasha), but also because he has the most embarrassing friend crush on all of them.He’s not ungrateful, he tries not to be, he has Matt and Ezekiel and he loves them, he really does. But he can’t help daydreaming about what it’d be like to have a group as close-knit as theirs; attending sleepovers twice a month at Natasha’s place, waking up to Clint’s prank calls, sciencing with Bruce, eating Steve’s homemade breakfasts, cleaning up Thor’s messes while laughing, going for study sessions every other day. Not exactly a crush, but close enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been harbouring the idea of posting a story for a long time ^ ^ Please comment on how to improve my writing style and everything ! I love you guys :) 
> 
> -Kira

Tony is in hell. 

 

It’s just before second bell and he’s already curled in his seat, facing away from the window so as not to throw up, his head throbbing rhythmically. Throughout first period Mrs Verton has been shooting him dirty glances, but second period Mr Benjamin just doesn’t seem to care, and for that he thanks God. 

 

Speaking of dirty glances, Hammer has got some pretty impressive ones coming his way at the moment. Tony wracks his brain for a reason but comes up empty, so he resumes staring at the wall, feeling the weight of Justin’s glare on the back of his neck. He doesn’t know it personally, but he’s heard of stares so full of hatred it makes your tench clench involuntarily. 

 

Now what’s he done this time? 

 

Not his most pressing problem at the moment. He has a killer headache and his vision is blurry. Probably - definitely shouldn’t have slept through that concussion.

 

“Psst,” someone hisses and his head  _ pounds _ . Wincing, he reaches over and accepts the paper passed to him and opens it, forcing his shaking hands to be still. Thankfully he can feel no more eyes on him as he focuses his bleary eyes on the words.

 

_ you OK? -M. _

 

It’s ridiculous how the three words make Tony’s face light up and he stares resolutely at the table as he feels blood rushing to his cheeks. He can only pray nobody is looking or him and nobody will find out. He glances up briefly and catches sight of Matthew looking at him. He nods a timid yes and Matt winks at him, which doesn’t help the state of his face.

 

It’s the 16th of December, which is bad news all around. It’s snowing, it’s cold, and Tony’s Mama died this day, last year. Matt’s always teased Tony about calling his mother  _ Mama _ , he’s  _ fifteen  _ already, old enough to do all the house matters and to hold his own in a street fight, but Mama sounds so much more intimate than Mum or anything else and he loves it, loves  _ her _ and wishes he didn’t sound so pathetic when he calls for her.

 

It’s the 16th of December, and Mr. Stark will be in a shitty mood.

 

Tony curls more firmly around himself, absently rubbing at an old bruise, twistedly enjoying the persistent ache. He feels another pair of eyes on him and turns slowly to acknowledge Clint Barton’s pale blue gaze. He considers sticking his middle finger out, but then again he doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of Clint and his gang. Not just because Steve and Thor, buff and blonde honchos, are more than capable of making him miserable (anyone on their team could, really, even - no,  _ especially _ the redhead Natasha), but also because he has the most embarrassing  _ friend crush _ on all of them.

 

He’s not ungrateful, he tries not to be, he has Matt and Ezekiel and he loves them, he really does. But he can’t help daydreaming about what it’d be like to have a group as close-knit as theirs; attending sleepovers twice a month at Natasha’s place, waking up to Clint’s prank calls, sciencing with Bruce, eating Steve’s homemade breakfasts, cleaning up Thor’s messes while laughing, going for study sessions every other day. Not exactly a crush, but close enough. 

 

Happily for him, his dreams have already been shattered, last semester when Bucky caught him talking to Bruce in Lab lesson and just about slammed him into the wall so hard he bitten his lip bloody.

 

The bell rings and his thoughts are abruptly cut off in favour of clamping his hands over his sensitive ears.

 

 

 

 

“What’s your problem, man?” 

 

Clint looks up as Natasha shoves her bag at him and kicks her chair out from under the table. “What’s bugging you?” she clarifies, sitting down and leaning forward. 

 

He steals a quick kiss and she huffs fondly, flicking his cheek. “Stark’s bothering me,” he says, nudging her foot under the table.

 

He has to fight not to visibly recoil as storms start brewing in Nat’s eyes. “He’s  _ bothering  _ you?”

 

“No, no! He didn’t do anything specifically to me, he just… puzzles me.”

 

Nat sits back, instantly going into relaxed mode, obviously having lost interest. But that’s not all, he needs her input on this.

 

“Throughout first and second bell he’s been doing nothing but drifting off. It’s like he’s never had a decent good night’s sleep in his life.”

 

“Isn’t that normal? Sleeping in class?” Natasha lifts a delicately curved eyebrow.

 

“Hasn’t snarked at the teacher all day, hasn’t shown any attitude, hasn’t been obnoxiously belittling everyone at all.” Clint chews on his lip. It’s his first term having lessons with Stark, considering that Stark just transferred in. He used to be in a “normal college”, apparently, obviously some private school designated for rich boys until he was deemed “too intelligent” and changed to S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint fucking hates him.

 

“Hm,” Nat looks at him, eyes dull. “Well, I highly doubt he’s changing his ways, Clinton.”

 

“Greetings, my friends!” Thor exclaimed from behind Nat, ending their current conversation at once. “Shall we set upon our journey to observe the glorious match featuring the ball of foot that is taking place in the yard of court?”

 

Clint’s proud that he can tell when Thor is screwing with them, when he’s not confused at all but just playing a part. “Sure thing, big guy.”

 

 

 

Tony toys with the idea of  _ telling _ Matt once again as he heads home, and once again settles on a ‘no’. He knows he’s a coward, but he can’t afford to lose Matt. He know Matt will understand, but he doesn’t think Matt will look at him in the same way, amazing as Matt is and always will be.

 

The door is locked when he reaches the front gate, so he circles to the back and climbs onto the shed to reach his window with the pipes. Then he pulls out his homework folder and prays he can finish it before Mr. Stark comes home.

 

He’s only halfway through his Math when the front door swings open and his blood turns to ice in his veins. Quickly he locks his window and runs to the bathroom to check his face. He looks okay but he knows he won’t after this. And he’s  _ terrified. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang’s all here at Steve’s place for another weekend sleepover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it’s me again! So, uh.. my grandpa just passed away; I’m kind of regretting not spending time with him but at the same time I’m glad he went in peace :’) Thank you for all your comments by the way they really boosted my ego ;) and also my updating schedule isn’t terribly consistent but I will do my best to update in before three days!! thank you all for your support again ^^ also, this chapter is more about clint and nat’s gang other than tony; my conscience keeps screaming at me to postpone the whump for just one more chapter so i’ll take the time to show you how close-knit and adorable they are :.)

Clint wakes up to pure, unadulterated bliss; the smell of Nat’s legendary pancakes wafting through the air. On any other occasion Natasha burns the house down when in the kitchen, but last year she stole a recipe from Mrs Rogers’ kitchen and somehow she makes them even better than Sarah. Bruce is still dead to the world next to him on the floor. Clint stretches his mildly aching muscles and wishes his luck would pick up and that he’d pick the long straw for once in his life so he could get a better sleep. (Nat got unlucky too, but with her devious scheming and claims of “having cramps”, Steve the gentleman had let her have his bean bag.) The Rogers’ do have a guest room, but there isn’t a TV in there, so they had held a watch-till-you-drop TV marathon instead.

He picks himself up from the floor and wanders over to the kitchen, where Nat wrinkles her nose at him and Bucky is sitting on the counter devouring a sandwich.

“Ca’ I help?” he asks.

“Clean your mouth out; your breath stinks like dead, salty and angry popcorn,” Bucky cuts in before Natasha can say something along the same lines. 

“M’kay,” he murmurs, shuffling to the bathroom as the front door bounces - bounces open. 

“Steven and I have returned!” Thor announces grandly, making Bruce groan in his sleep on reflex. “Valiant as he has fought, he has still failed to prevail over me, and I am victorious!”

“Shut up, Thor.” Steve elbows past him and flops onto the dirty, meant-for-after-Steve’s-jogs armchair, kicking his legs weakly in the air.

“Hey, Stevie, ya smell even worse than Clint’s face,” Bucky feels the need to inform him.

“Go fuck yourself!” Clint yells as he beelines for Nat, who rolls her eyes and lets him have a quarter of pancake. “Someone wake Bruce up, can’t wait to eat this glorious concoction. Nat, you know I love you forever and ever and ever, will you marry me?”

“Hm, no,” Nat says offhandedly as she carries the stacks of food to the table. “Barton, get the OJ and the syrup, please and thank you.”

“Aw, am I not on your first-name list anymore?” Clint opens the fridge.

“Dear God, who slammed the door?” Sarah asks from the doorway and everyone freezes. Although Mrs. Rogers has made it more than clear that she welcomes them all, the undercurrent of fear that they’ll all be just too much and she will kick them out on their asses forever. 

“It was I, good lady,” Thor gravely says, dipping to the lowest of his voice range in an attempt at remorse. 

“Hnngh,” Bruce adds, squinting at them all with unfocused, bleary eyes.

“Pancakes?” Nat subtly attempts to divert Sarah’s attention, smiling. Nat only smiles at eight people in the whole wide world, and Clint is proud to say that he is one of them, thank you very much.

“Okay, whatever,” Sarah gives up and they all crowd around the table eagerly, Bruce groggily sitting down and peering at the food.

“It’s pancakes,” Steve offers. “If your nose is blocked.”

Bruce sniffs hard. “Nat’s pancakes?”

“Nat’s pancakes!” Bucky whoops and they all tuck in happily. Steve and Bucky are obviously kicking each other under the table, Clint’s focuses his life’s energy on digesting food, and Nat keeps sneaking glances at everyone to see how they like her food. Which shouldn’t be questioned, really. Sarah abruptly ends Steve and Bucky’s antics with a stern glare, and, as always, initiates the morning conversation. 

“You all read the news?” she asks.

“Mm, nope,” Clint says, voice muffled by pancake. Steve gives him a That’s Gross™️ look. 

“Yes, Ma,” he answers, angelic in the presence of his mother. 

“You all know Tony Stark?”

That elevated quickly. Clint throws a glance at Nat as she visibly perks up in curiosity. Steve and Thor don’t react. Bucky’s face minutely darkens but he wisely keeps quiet to avoid another lecture on social interactions from Sarah. Bruce looks up in interest, staying on neutral ground. “He’s in our school, our level actually.”

Sarah raises her eyebrows. “In your school? Isn’t he-”

“Fifteen, yeah,” Clint says. “He’s a genius, child prodigy, yada yada. What about him?”

Sarah looks faintly troubled. “That’s- extremely talented,” she mutters. “How is he?”

“How is he about being extremely talented? Not nice,” Clint answers.

“I can’t really figure him out,” Natasha says carelessly, tapping her fingers against her spoon idly, but Clint knows how much it matters to her that she can’t figure someone out. 

Sarah frowns. “We should hope he gets found, really, no matter what he’s like.”

“What d’you mean?” Steve asks.

A tired smile plays around Sarah’s lips. “Thought you read the news?” she teases. “Stark Junior just got kidnapped.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold the whump!

_ “Give me a moment, Antonio!” _

 

_ Tony laughs, the dry leaves crackling under his running feet. The air smells like fresh leaves and wet soil.  _

 

Tony is drifting.

 

_ “Antonio Stark!” _

 

_ “Keep up, Mama!”  _

 

_ The camera bounces against his hip with each step, the rattling sound slightly pleasant. The wide beam of his torchlight is going haywire - he doesn’t really need it, it’s barely six and it’s still very light, but he just likes to use a flashlight. Feels like those thriller novels he finds in the Senior Library. _

 

Tony’s heart hurts.

 

_ “Antonio! I won’t buy you coconuts if you don’t stop now!” _

 

_ Tony is still laughing. He ducks and rolls, just because he can, he just learnt it and he likes the way it’s air rushes over his head in one moment and the hard, warm earth in the next and he gets a faceful of leaves as he sits back up. It just makes him laugh more, and that’s how his Mama finds him, covered in golden and red, curled in a bush, grinning so hard his cheeks are about to split. _

 

_ “I love you, Mama.” _

 

_ “I love you too, Tony,” she says, and _ he’s waking up, he doesn’t want to-

 

Hazily, he does his best to identify the biggest source of pain. His ribs hurt, but not as much as his head. His throat is sore and his arms are aching and and his wrist are chafing against-

 

There’s no other way to put it - Tony  _ freaks out _ completely. He twists wildly only for his back to slam into a metal-backed chair, his shoulder  _ burns  _ and he can’t help it as a tear slides slowly down his cheek.

 

At least he’s not in the cabinet.  _ Why _ did Howard tie him to a chair? He can’t think. What had he been dreaming of? He can’t breathe, his heart hurts, something’s moving and he can’t move, he can’t breathe-

 

The door opens and his eyes hurt - he didn’t even notice they were open, the light is slicing through his retinas, and he whimpers and closes his eyes.

 

Someone delivers a hard uppercut to his jaw and his head snaps back to hit a wall hard. His head spins and for a moment he’s terrified because he doesn’t know what happens when you got a concussion on top of a concussion, but after a few moments as he waits for his ears to stop ringing he hasn’t died yet, so he supposes it’s okay.

 

It’s like floodgates have opened and relentless thoughts are spilling over mercilessly, a migraine slicing through his temples and threatening to push him off the edge of consciousness.

 

“Stop,” he says, but it’s barely intelligible and he doubts they can hear him.

 

Whoever it is has good hearing, because he laughs. His head buzzes. There’s something he should remember. What had he been dreaming about?

 

If they’re laughing, he should apologise. 

 

“’M sorry,” he mumbles. Why can’t he speak louder?

 

Someone shoves his bad shoulder and he can’t help but scream. It’s too much. The chair wobbles weakly and crashes onto its side, taking him with it. His ribs are jostled and they  _ hurt _ and he tries to yell out but his throat hurts and the sound that comes out in the end must have sounded disgusting because they’re laughing more.

 

“Sorry,” he whispers desperately. Something is trickling out of the corner of the mouth. When it pools on the floor it looks red. 

 

He really  _ is  _ sorry. Why won’t they believe him? Who are they? What do they want?

 

He lifts his head groggily. His head hurts. His breath feels hot against his skin and the room is spinning. Despite all this, he catches the tell-tale glint of red on the camcorder. 

 

“No,” he says, trying his best to curl up in the fallen chair and finding that he can’t because his ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. “No, he won’t pay, he won’t pay,  _ he won’t pay _ .”

 

“But he will when he sees you.” They’re coming closer, they’re closing in and he doesn’t want them to hurt him, he doesn’t want to hurt anymore because it’s going to be too much and he can’t breathe, he recognises that he’s flailing but he can’t control it. He wishes they wouldn’t hurt him, Howard won’t pay, Howard probably doesn’t even know he’s gone and won’t know until they send out the video of him. The video of him looking  _ absolutely pathetic. _

 

Howard will murder him.

 

They must have left him alone and are gathered around the camcorder, one guy adjusting some of the controls. He squints and still can’t make out what he’s doing.

 

“Please don’t send it?” he tries, and can’t hear himself. He must have imagined saying it. He tries again and feels his lips moving soundlessly.

 

_ “Jesus, so fucking weak.” _

 

Then the room is empty, and the door closes again into blissful darkness. Tony closes his eyes and breathes quietly, trying to stop shivering. Then suddenly he remembers. Howard left him outside, and he’d managed to get to the garage before he must have given out from exhaustion.

 

He starts to sob, hoping to use up his tears before they come in again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony meets Pepper!

He loses track of time lying on the rough granite ground, keeping his eyes closed and embracing the way the chill cuts hard into his injured cheek. The door opens, maybe randomly, maybe regularly. There’s no food, just fists and booted feet and the damned camcorder with its red blinking light. They’ve considered breaking bones more than once, but when they actually get around to it they realise his ribs are already cracked from Before and decide to have a little mercy. One of them, though, particularly sadistic, likes to hit him on his bad shoulder, which he can’t even feel anymore. He’s lost feeling in his limbs and sometimes he feels boilingly hot and bitingly cold all over, but he’s still alive, which means they haven’t had him for more than one month.

Still, when the door finally, finally gets blown off its hinges, he finds himself crying - again like a weak, pathetic, useless creature - because it’s been too long. Someone walks over and helps him out and up and hugs him. He wishes he can be awake for long enough to enjoy it a little more, but too soon and it’s over.

When he wakes up, someone comes to see him in the hospital ward. He knows it’s not Howard, but they smell familiar. He wishes he can open his eyes to see but he can’t. Everything hurts and when they touch his forehead their hand is so cold he wonders if they need a coat. It’s December, after all. Or is it already January? His heart jumps in his dented rib cage when he realises he’s missed so much school. What would Howard say?

After more drifting, Tony gradually finds the strength to pull his eyelids open. Blearily, he blinks at the woman by his bed. At first he may have wished it were his Mama, but she has rather blonde hair instead of the rich brown of his Mama. He closes his eyes again, energy spent, and exhales through his nose to communicate that he’s awake.

“Hi, honey,” she says, and the cold, cold hand comes back to rest on his forehead. His teeth chatter and he tries drawing closer to himself. She pulls the blanket up around him and it feels just a bit better. Thanks anyway, he thinks. She continues talking: “Your father couldn’t come to see you.” Of course. “How’re you feeling?”

I’m feeling lucky, he thinks. Any lacerations, bruises and broken bones he has will be linked to the kidnappers immediately. Nobody will ask him questions that make him slack-jawed and cause him to end up bleeding into the mattress at night.

He doesn’t say anything, but tries to shrug and that’s a bad idea because his shoulder flames, throbs in protest and he cries out, his throat hurts. He wishes she would leave him alone.

“Don’t move, sweetheart.” Not planning to. “Do you know who I am?” When he manages to shake his head, “I didn’t think so. My name is Virginia; I’m your father’s assistant.” He wishes she’d stop calling Howard his father. It makes his skin crawl. “You, well, you can call me Pepper.”

Tony forces his eyes open. She’s come closer, and he can see a pretty face, large eyes and freckles. She looks young. “Pep-?” he croaks out, the second half of the name lost to his frayed voice. He sounds disgusting. If he were her he would get up and go.

She smiles. Her eyes are wet. “Yeah, it’s my nickname. From my boyfriend.” Seeing him frown in inquisition she continues, “He’s in the Army; he’s called James.”

James. Like Bucky Barnes. Tony swallows, making his throat twinge half-heartedly. He reaches for something and finds himself fisting his fingers in the cool sheets, thinking of how much school has passed without him, thinking of Howard, how angry he’ll be, how his eyes grow dark with fury like he’s seen so many times before-

Pepper curls her hand in his hair. It feels strange. New. Nice. She starts talking, again, louder, “D’you know what Jim’s like? He doesn’t like his real name, so he goes by Jim, by the way. He’s one of the best people you’ll meet - yeah, you’ll meet him, I promise. Why haven’t I ever seen you before, Tony? I spend so much time in and around your house… Are you out a lot? At school? Or maybe, you like going somewhere? The club? The shops?”

“The- the library,” Tony chokes out. Pepper moves closer until he’s pressed against her side, breathing against her shoulder. Her hand doesn’t leave his hair, and he’s idly grateful.

“You like going to the library?” she says in surprise. “Well, studious, aren’t you?” She flicks his cheek fondly, almost like he’s known her his whole life. He doesn’t like it much, but he stays still. Why is she acting like this? It’s not even part of her job description.

“I’m tired,” he says out loud without thinking.

“I know. Go to sleep, Tony,” and now both hands are in his hair and sleep comes not long after.

 

 

“Pepper” stays with him for the whole week. Sometimes she brings her laptop and works when she thinks he’s asleep. He likes watching her; she gives him a sense of normalcy. Once he hears her talking quietly to someone outside and he wishes Jim would come in so he can see what it looks like to be the ‘best person in the world’ to her. If he can’t have it, he can at least see it.

At the end of the week, Howard comes to see him. Pepper smiles reassuringly at him - she’s goes from pretty to beautiful when she smiles, in his opinion, does she smile at Jim much? - and Howard sits down in the plastic hospital chair next to him. 

Tony is now lucid enough to sit up, grip his blanket tightly, and look at his lap.

“We’re in public,” Howard says quietly. Tony jerks his chin up at once to look at him. His eyes must be wide and frightened because Howard leers. “Having fun away from home, ungrateful brat?”

“No, sir.”

Howard stands. “You’re coming home tomorrow,” he says in a more authoritative tone. Tony looks up and sucks his stomach in as Howard leans down threateningly. “We can continue medical treatment at home.”

“Please, sir,” Tony tries desperately. He wants to spend more time here, with Pepper, away, away, away. 

Howard sneers and Tony looks back down, repressing his flinch as the door slams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard isn’t very happy after the kidnapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay you guys don’t know how much your comments mean to me. They literally keep me alive. so please please please write more and tell me how to uh improve :)) love y’all :3

Going home is a foreign feeling.

 

For a while Jarvis was there, but he was fired after Mama died. Tony doesn’t know what to feel anymore, just wanders into his room and tucks the bloody mattress under the bed. If he’s too tired to stop the blood flow before sleeping he’ll just collapse on the mattress, but if anyone sees it Howard may just lock him in a cabinet for life.

 

Let’s not go there.

 

Tony finds his phone in a drawer. He doesn’t like social media and he has not much need for a phone, but he needs to know the-

 

Tony flips the phone over so that the screen is facing up and  _ freezes _ .

 

It’s 13 January. He’s been gone for a whole month. They’ve had him for three weeks. 

 

It’s almost ridiculous, how the things that set him off nowadays are  _ tiny _ . Tony feels himself double over, sink to the floor and press against the wall, breath hitching in his chest. He can feel his heart jumping against his throat.  _ Not here, not now, not here… _

 

The door flies open and Tony lets out a mangled gasp, tumbling to the floor with his back to the wall, hands coming up instinctively. To his horror, Howard’s eyes are dark.

 

“Stand up,” he orders.

 

Tony fumbles, getting his hands under him with difficulty. His breath is coming in short huffs and sweat runs in rivulets down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Careful not to apply pressure to his shoulder, he pulls himself up to a standing position, pressing his bad side to the wall, away from Howard.

 

“Sir,” he says, too throaty, too shaky. Howard pulls his hand back and Tony sucks in a hasty breath before the blow connects, knocking his head out the side against the wall. Stars burst momentarily in his vision and he staggers, clutching his shoulder with his right hand. His lip splits again and he tastes blood.

 

“Shall we play a game, Anthony?” Howard asks, leaning down again, and his breath is coming too short, his lungs are straining for air and his shoulder hurts, hurts, hurts- 

 

Howard grips his hair and forces Tony’s head back to look at him. Tony cringes at the dark, absolute  _ fury _ in Howard’s intense gaze. 

 

“ _ Fucking  _ worthless piece of shit,” Howard mutters, and Tony has a split second to brace himself but he forgets and he can only cry out as Howard slams his head into the wall. And Howard’s still talking. “What did you do? During those fucking twenty days?  _ Cry?” _

 

Tony chokes on his breathing, liquid running down his face. He prays it’s blood and not tears, but the thunder on Howard’s face tells him otherwise. “Stop, please,” he gasps desperately. 

 

Howard’s face darkens more, impossibly. “No, sorry,” Tony yells, but Howard is shoving him back and kneeing him hard in the stomach. At the ragged burst of pain Tony groans and drops to his knees, but his head snaps up and he _ screams  _ when Howard grabs his shoulder.

 

“Wonder what you did when they came up to you,” Howard comments as if he isn’t hitting the living daylights out of Tony, “did you just lie there and ask them to take you? Just to mock me? See if I’d pay? Like I’d pay anything for something as useless as you?

 

“Shall we play a  _ game _ when I come back, Tony?”

 

Tony curls himself up tightly, shielding his face with his bruised arms, keeping his eyes screwed shut to prevent the escape of more tears. He wishes he doesn’t have to play Howard’s games whenever he’s bored. He tastes blood and feels blood and wishes Howard could have done it outside because he doesn’t want blood on his uniform or his textbooks and he can’t remember if he closed the cupboard door but even if he did blood could get on the bed, the bed, not the mattress, and-

 

A sharp flare of pain on his ribs brings him back to the present, and he realises what he’s doing, shrunk up into a ball on the floor, can be very accurately described as “freaking out”. Tony knows from experience that Howard does not approve of freaking out.

 

Howard enforces this point by bringing his foot down on Tony’s half-healed ribs.

 

Tony yells out weakly as he hears the telltale  _ crack _ and  _ feels  _ it too. It hurts so much he can barely breathe, each breath dragging against his damaged sternum painfully.

 

He’s so tired, he just wants it to  _ stop _ . He hopes there are no marks on his face. The first slap might leave a bruise, but one bruise is manageable he supposes. And Howard is finally, finally done.

 

“‘M sorry, sir,” he tries to say, but it comes out a mutilated whisper and Tony ends up wishing Howard didn’t hear. For once something is in his favour and Howard merely turns away, muttering under his breath. Tony catches hints of words like  _ pathetic _ and shrinks in on himself. His hands are shaking, so he hides them, away from Howard.

 

“You better be useful when I’m back,” Howard says, slamming the door. Tony closes his eyes and nibbles at his bloody bottom lip, head spinning from blood loss. He wants to sleep, can already feel hands of exhaustion tugging at him, but he has to survey the situation. Slowly he lifts himself, whimpering quietly as his broken ribs scrape against each other. His stomach turns over again and again and he wants to throw up. His shoulder is numb again and streaming blood, which can’t be good. 

 

Tony looks up. The bottom corner of his Bloody Mattress is drenched in red. There are more bloodstains on his walls and pooling on the floor. Tony gags, bile rising in his throat, and suddenly the combination of pain and nausea is too much - Tony keels over and retches, he hasn’t eaten anything since the hospital and what comes out is just a clear, transparent bile.

 

_ Disgusting _ , he thinks, dropping to the floor and closing his eyes to let the next wave of exhaustion pulls him under.

  
  
  


When he wakes up he spends the better part of two hours cleaning up his mess. Everything hurts, and he uses up a huge portion of his emergency gauze. Gauze isn’t expensive, but Tony is saving up. To buy what he doesn’t really know, but what he does know is that he intends for it to be a gift to-

 

The thought hits him like lightning, ripping away his freshly rebuilt walls and leaving him a gasping, stuttering mess slumped against the wall again. He intended for it to be a gift. For Matt. Matt, who hasn’t heard from him in a month. Tony gasps out again, stumbling blindly into his room and barely catching himself from slipping. He tugs open two drawers before he finds the one he wants and dials Matt’s number. He has very little contacts in his phone, and he can’t help but notice he has one more by the name of “Pepper”. He doesn’t let that distract him. Matt is everything in the world to Tony. If he lost Matt, Tony’s not sure he can continue.

 

“Hello? Tony?”

 

Tony collapses against the wall in pure relief. “Matt?” he asks breathlessly.

 

“Holy shit, Tony! Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony exhales out, horrified to find tears gathering in his eyes. “Uh, I’m good. They didn’t hurt me.” He figures Howard wouldn’t tell the media about the gory details of his kidnapping. God knows how much he hates admitting weakness and all that shit. 

 

“Oh. That’s- that’s great.” Silence for a moment, which Tony tilts his head back and enjoys, then “But still, are you okay?”

 

Tony grins wide. He loves this about Matt, the way he can always tell something’s off with the subtle changes in his voice. Still, he’s not about to tell him anything. The risk factor, when calculated in, is simply too high. 

  
  


“Yeah, I’m good. Great. I, uh-” Tony wants to say he missed Matt, but then he realises he’d be lying. He hasn’t thought about Matt at all, even through the whole week lying in hospital and the guilt runs bone-deep.

 

He doesn’t deserve Matt. “Uh, I was scared,” he settles on saying finally. Matt is one of the only people he ever admits this to. Scratch that, Matt’s the only person.

 

Matt chuckles. “Will I be seeing you in school? It’s been a week,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Tony breathes, “Yeah, you will.”

 

When Matt hangs up Tony grabs his wallet, pulls on his hoodie and heads out to get something to eat. Maybe one day he’ll call Pepper. She’s probably already forgotten about him. Maybe he won’t. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, I AM BACK. so what’s going on is that i went overseas for my grandfather’s funeral and forgot to inform you guys. and then when i got back i was so busy trying to catch up on my schoolwork. i am SO SORRY but i know apologies will never be enough. this is inexcusable so i wrote an extra long chapter. hopefully i shall be forgiven. 
> 
> once again, love you all and i really, really would appreciate if you leave a comment!
> 
> *i’ve always had a headcanon that nat and clint are tough but the cutest couple

The only one that touches Tony nowadays is himself.

 

This thought occurs to him as he wraps his forearms around his head and lowers himself gingerly to his knees in the janitor’s closet. Of all the injuries he’s received over the past few years, his least favourite are headaches. His jaw, ribs and stomach hurt but his head is throbbing like it’s about to combust and it makes his gut turn over again and again. He hears himself whimper and wishes someone were around to shut him up because he’s otherwise preoccupied with keeping his head straight, he knows he shouldn’t swear but it hurts, hurts hurts hurts like f -

 

The door opens and Tony cowers, shielding his face instinctively from the source of light and tucking his knees to his chest.

 

“What the fuck? Stark?”

 

Shit - he knows he shouldn’t swear but the voice sounds familiar and he doesn’t want anyone familiar to be seeing him like this - he covers his face with his hands and squints up at the intruder, wincing as the pain spikes.

 

“What are you doing Stark?”

 

“Uh,” he mumbles valiantly, blood rushing to his face like second nature.

 

Wilson - for he can now identify the voice with a name - scoffs.“Are you jackin’ off? In the fucking broom closet? Are you that desperate, Stark?”

 

Tony stares, uncomprehending. Wilson’s eyes, dark with anger, are like pinpricks of focused disappointment. Wilson, he knows He doesn’t understand what he did, but he doesn’t want to say that because that’s worse and he doesn’t know how to describe what a mess is going on in his head.

 

He keeps quiet. Wilson snorts, reaches past him and grabs a broom, throwing him dirty looks. “Get out, man,” he mutters under his breath. Tony feels the stab of hurt and keeps his eyes to the ground. He resolutely does not think of all the other times he’s heard the same thing.

 

get the fuck out, you disgusting piece of shit

 

Tony stumbles to his feet, his head and shoulder protesting. His world spins for a moment and he whines under his breath at the jolt of pain from his cracked ribs with the movement. Wilson keeps giving him that disgusted stare, so he tugs at what’s left of his pride and heads down the corridor.

 

He can’t help but notice that Wilson doesn’t touch him. It’s not fair, really. He doesn’t have a say in how pathetic he is.

  
  
  
  


Tony doesn’t call.

 

To say Pepper is out of her mind with confusion is an understatement. Howard is fiercely protective and won’t let her see Tony ever. Something doesn’t add up - the kid’s in college but at the moment, but has a grand total of four contacts in his phone - his father’s, two schoolmates’ (she assumed), and hers.

 

She knows he must have seen her contact in his phone (albeit a little shameless of her, but Tony is adorable and she would love to spend more time with him and everything), but he doesn’t contact her at all. Not even a text. Maybe he feels creeped out, and she wouldn’t blame him, but he was such a nice kid when she met him. Withdrawn, but nice. Nothing like his father; where Howard believes in stone-faced intimidation and keeping his emotions in a box, Tony has the most expressive eyes she’s ever seen. That comes with a downside, she supposes, in the form of a mountain of insecurity. She’s noticed that meeting Tony’s eyes causes him to glance at his lap and touching him makes him hold his breath. Strange behaviour, but she can tell Howard isn’t the best father material; his mother’s death mustn’t have been great on him either.

 

It all just boils down to how much she wishes he’d just text her. Maybe if he did, she’d invite him over when Jim has a day off. Just pile onto the couch, let her hair down and watch a movie marathon.

 

Another thing that puzzles her is how obvious everything about Tony is. He’s breathtakingly intelligent, something she’s realised from the speed at which his mind runs. He talks quickly when given the chance and even quicker when under pressure or transparently diverting the topic to safer grounds. He obviously has had little to no human interaction but has enough curiosity to make up for it. He’s painfully sensitive about not offending anyone, jarringly observant and hurting. Hurting so much she’s shocked, really, that Howard still hasn’t noticed. In her opinion, however, she suspects that Howard does know, just doesn’t have a mind for anything other than business and has no idea what to do with this information. She has seen him subtly trying to spend more time with Tony in the week after the kidnapping, but when the Japanese buyers - their link to international spread of product - showed up Howard had been so occupied he sent her to Tony’s bedside. She’s glad he did, too. Howard isn’t a bad father by any means, but he’s obviously blind to what Tony needs. She supposes she should be thankful Howard hasn’t been trying to force Tony into working for the company. With his work-driven lifestyle she wouldn’t put it past him.

 

Whatever is going on in their problematic household, Pepper just wants to see Tony smile. Once.

  
  
  


Clint is sitting on the bleachers, hugging his knees and sneaking peeks over his shoulder at Steve’s sketch when Nat comes over. She slots into his side without any effort, and he can’t help but smile goofily at her.

 

“Cut it out, Barton,” Bucky scoffs from behind him. He’s lying on his back, stretched out next to Steve, bone-tired and yawning.

 

“Cut it out, Barnes,” Wilson imitates him as if he isn’t pillowing his head on Bucky’s stomach. They like to pretend they’re not friends.

 

Steve shoots a glare at all of them, and if he was hoping to spend practice break in peace and quiet he will be disappointed, Clint thinks. Nat nudges him, sliding impossibly further into his space and pinching his arm affectionately. “How are you?” she asks.

 

Clint takes comfort in knowing that Nat would never display this kind of behaviour in any company but theirs. “Pretty good,” he answers, rubbing gentle circles into the back of her neck and feeling her shoulders slump against him. “You?” The others don’t comment, out of fear in case they end up on the wrong side of his girl. Maybe it’s weird, but he feels a surge of pride.

 

“Stressed,” she admits, the sound carrying across to his ears only. “Finals are coming up and frankly, I don’t have confidence for them.” She tilts her head up to look at him, “I’m converting date nights to study nights. The order has been approved and the law is passed.”

 

He chuckles. “Cool. What’s cooler though is if after the study night-”

 

Before Nat’s predictable eyebrow can go up, Steve interrupts, obviously too bothered to recognise the potential danger he’s landing himself in. “Just let me sleep, please,” he groans, flopping backwards, his shoulder landing solidly on Sam who lets out a disgruntled “oof” and rolls away, grumbling. Nat throws a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t comment. Everyone knows it’s because she loves them.

 

Some things are better off this way, without being said.

 

“Hey,” Bucky speaks up suddenly. “Guess what I spy with my little eye.” His tone is light, but Clint can sense dark anger and he twists.

 

Stark is sitting across the empty field, dressed in the Robotics team sweatshirt, a zip-up hoodie, and wearing glasses (what the fuck? Now that is something Clint doesn’t know), his upper half twisted to face-

 

Bruce. Their Brucie, who is blind without his glasses, who talks in his sleep, who has mood swings like a hormonal teenager (which he is, really). Maybe it’s selfish, but Stark has no business touching their Bruce.

 

“That son of a bitch,” Bucky begins, standing up, but Nat flings our a hand to stop him.

 

“Hey,” she says. “Brucie’s smiling.”

 

It’s true, which is probably the worse part; Bruce hasn’t smiled in a long time because he gets easily pressurised and the finals have really drained him, but here he is, broad grin stretching across his face, watching as Stark’s hands fly animatedly through the air. Grudgingly, Clint has to admit that he’s never seen someone quite as full of life as Stark. His eyes light up and his movements grab attention. It’s a media ploy, something he’s unfamiliar with, but he does know that it works. Every eye in the room is magnetised to Stark when he begins to talk.

 

“Stark’s doin’ all the talking,” Bucky growls. “Y’know Bruce hates bein’ oppressed like that.”

 

Ever since last year after witnessing Bruce get harassed by mindless jerks jealous of his genius, Bucky (and all of them, really, but Bucky even more so) has been fiercely protective of the shy boy. He’s never seen a bigger contrast, to be honest, Stark with his dramatics and larger-than-life actions; Bruce with his quiet observation and hesitant, careful words.

 

And then, and then, Bruce starts to talk.

 

All of them watch, nothing short of amazed, as Bruce takes his glasses off to clean them - a nervous tick - and then talks. Nothing like the short bursts of monosyllable speech he gives strangers, but a long, undoubtedly science-filled rant. He moves too, hunching his shoulders and sometimes raising his hands to gesture.

 

And Stark listens, going still and lacing his hands in his lap like he recognises that his turn is over.

 

“Brucie in his element. Amazing,” Steve murmurs, but everyone can hear the undercurrent of annoyance that they only get to see it from afar and that of all people, it’s Stark, who cheats his way into Bruce’s trusted with his intellect.

 

That’s when Stark lifts his head to nod and he makes direct eye contact with Clint. In retaliation, Clint gathers as much heat into his gaze as possible and shoots a blade of pure rage through the space between them.

 

It gives him no small amount of satisfaction when Stark is the first to look down.

 

Bruce, oblivious, is still talking, but now Stark joins the banter and now they look like they’re full on debating. Bucky snorts. “Gets satisfaction from seein’ us jealous, huh? If he hurts Brucie I swear I will destroy him.”

 

Nat glances at Clint. She hasn’t said anything, but he knows that what she means is that Bucky isn’t alone in sharing this sentiment.

 

“Speaking of Stark…” Sam mutters, tone laced with disgust, “I caught him jerking off in the broom closet this morning. Skipping class to fucking jerk off.”

 

“What didja expect? He’s a slut,” Bucky says bluntly. Steve flushes but doesn’t comment, which means he agrees.

 

“You sure? I mean, he just got kidnapped.” Natasha tilts her head adorably. Clint grins at her and she scowls.

 

Sam also scowls. “Keep your PDA to yourselves, please. You already win the award for Cutest Couple, okay? I’m sure. Face was red and everything, panting like he’d run 10 miles, groaning like a two-dollar whore. Ran away with his tail between his legs when I found him.”

 

“That’s enough,” Steve says in his stern-captain voice. “Stark may be incorrigible, but that’s too much of a degradation. I say we stop gossiping like middle school girls and just tell Bruce to stay away.”

 

“Yes, Captain,” they chorus just to see Steve’s indignation. Steve, Bucky and Sam have to continue practice, so Clint heads across the field to break up this little toxic meeting.

  
  


Tony’s having a bad day.

 

In Gym class, he tore his wound again. He can feel blood seeping past the bandage, staining his sweatshirt, which is why he hastily threw on his hoodie. He’s been crying so much he doesn’t even know if it’s safe to put his contacts in anymore, so he opts to wear glasses. Around campus everyone stares, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

 

The day was actually looking up for once. Tony didn’t sleep last night, rushing the overdue homework from the Kidnapping Days (fun!), and he nodded off in the lab only to be awoken by Bruce Banner, who - is actually quite a nice guy.

 

That’s all on Tony, really. He’d assumed Banner was horrible because of how his group all hated him, but Bruce is just amazing. They fell into easy conversation and Bruce had actually managed to lead him out of the lab to sit where he could get fresh air, which, really, is unnecessarily pleasant and considerate of him. Tony wishes he’s a better person, because he looks up and sees Bruce’s friends looking nastily at him.

 

He supposes they think he’s a bad influence, and he automatically wants to leave.

 

fucking useless, only know how to run and cry in a corner don’t you?

 

But Bruce looks so happy, talking about his latest ambitious project, and it’s obvious he doesn’t get to talk with people about this topic he’s obviously passionately in love with. So Tony stays, listens, even as he sees, with a growing amount of dread, Clint Barton make his way over.

 

please don’t hit me please don’t hit me please don’t hit me

 

Clint yells out a harsh “Bruce!” and Bruce jumps a bit. He really hasn’t noticed him coming over then. Understandable, Tony loses track sometimes due to-

 

“Yeah?” Bruce asks.

 

“C’mon, we’re gonna go to the diner’s first. The football dudes say they’re coming late,” Clint says, still coming closer.

 

Opting to ignore him, then? It’s better. Better that way. Tony stands up and stretches - ouch oh shit - regrets it, and looks to Bruce. He’s gratified to see that Bruce looks just a little disappointed.

 

“Uh, I guess I’ll be going now,” he stammers, feeling impossibly awkward.

 

Bruce chews on his lip and starts to clean his glasses again. “Yeah, good, uh, talk,” he says, and Tony recognises it at once. Bruce obviously thinks he’s not interested and he can’t let that stand.

 

“No! Look, I’d really enjoy it if you, uh, if we got together for a project? I mean, you have great insights and it’d be great to work with you!” Shit, now he sounds like he’s kissing ass too much. Barton’s scowl deepens. Tony curls his fingers in his sweatshirt and it shifts, dragging across his back and ouch.

 

It’s worth it, though, because Bruce lights up again and beams. “Really? That’s great. You have no idea how many new ideas I have already-”

 

“Me too,” Tony says honestly. “You should probably, uh, go for your thing.”

 

“See you!” Bruce calls out enthusiastically sad Tony does what could be very appropriately described as fleeing. He knows Bruce will never want to talk to him after Barton has a moment with him. Their heads are already together, conversing in low voices.

 

Yep, today’s a bad day. Cheers, Tony thinks tiredly. It’s nearing sunset, which means he won’t have time to grab a nap before Howard gets back.

 

His phone buzzes and he sighs, slumping against the wall and fishing for his phone in his bag. Someone’s calling him. He clears his throat, doesn’t want Matt to hear him like this.

 

It’s not Matt. The Caller ID says Pepper, and for a moment Tony freaks out, almost wringing his hands but choosing instead to twist them around the hem of his shirt again. Why doesn’t he ever learn? He bites back the hiss of pain and answers the call.

 

“Hello? Tony?”

 

“Uh, hi,” he says, hating his voice and his frantic hands and everything about himself.

 

“Oh! That’s great,” Pepper sounds genuinely happy. “I was worried something was up because you didn’t” - she chuckles nervously - “text. I put the contact there myself, but really, how are you?”

 

How am I? Tony thinks in puzzlement. He looks at the grass, quivering slightly in the breeze. The Finals are coming up, which he’s a little worried about but it’s okay. The problem is that the Library is going to be crowded and everyone is going to see him with his nerd glasses on- suddenly he realises, reaches up and rips the glasses away from his face. He’s not as sightless as Bruce without them (something Bruce brought up), but it helps because engineering is all about accuracy, accuracy, accuracy-

 

“Tony?” Pepper is confused. Of course.

 

“I’m good,” he blurts. “I just- uh, school. School, it’s Finals month, but it’s okay really. Thanks for checking.”

 

“Oh, that’s no problem. You can talk to me anytime, you know.”

 

That’s not in your job description. “Mhmn,” he hums.

 

“Well… have a nice evening, Tony! I guess I’ll say bye now.”

 

“You too. Bye.” Nice evening? He wants to laugh. Howard will be angry at him for coming home late. It’s a 42-minute walk home. Maybe they’ll play games. Howard’s sick games are things he looks least forward to, and that’s saying something.

 

Tony looks over his shoulder, but Bruce and Barton are gone. With a sigh, he heads out the school gate and starts to walk.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know my updating is a bit... erratic but I promise I am not going to give up on this story. Updates should be coming in once a week now... thanks for sticking around, I love you guys <3

The sky is dark when Tony reaches the gate and slips into the premises. His shoulder aches distantly, like a phantom pain tingling from his collarbone to his forearm. As always, he hauls himself onto the shed roof and pauses, pressing his ear to the one-way glass window. No sound of breathing. Howard’s “work car”, the one he drives to work, is in the garage though, and he can’t let himself hope.

 

Holding his breath, Tony lifts himself onto the ledge and turns the handle slowly. The window swings open noiselessly (Tony oils the hinges often for this purpose). His room is empty.

 

Exhaling gently, Tony climbs into his room, shrugging his shoulders to relieve some of the tension. He kicks off his shoes and sets his bag down, swiveling his gaze around. (He knows Howard won’t just jump out to scare him but that doesn’t mean he can’t be wary.)

 

It’s a Thursday, which is great. Only one more day of school before he can get out. He knows the librarian personally, a kind-faced man by the name of Yinsen, and he’s slept on the plush beanbags in the Reading Corner he’s constructed for himself more than once. But everything comes with a price. Fridays are the worst days. Weekends are the busiest for Howard, and there has to be some way to let all that stress out, right? 

 

Tony flops onto his bed and curls up, uncomfortably aware of the chill rushing in through the open window. Winter is coming, he thinks blithely, remembering happy days of 9 years old reading Game of Thrones while pressed into his mother’s side and blushing as she snaps the book shut at more inappropriate segments. 

 

The door slams distantly, downstairs. Tony scrambles to his feet and noiselessly walks to the door, gently cracking it open a fraction to peek out into the corridor. The lights are off and the corridor looks like a dark tunnel, full of foreboding and desolate warning. Tony shivers lightly and retreats back into his room, planning to work on some homework in advance.

 

Tony likes lists. He’s always been an abstract kind of person, but he prefers to know what he has to do. He rarely forgets, but he’d rather eradicate that possibility altogether. In this world mistakes have consequences, and consequence requires correction. As Howard frequently beats into him.

 

At the moment he has a grand total of four lists - his personal bucket list, Howard’s projects, what he has to save up for (Matt’s gift will always take the first place on that one), and one more he’d rather not talk about. 

 

At the moment all he wants to accomplish personally is to do something about the interior design of this private jet thing Howard’s been hassling him about. Howard made him do the technical side of the jet, like what makes it fly, what makes it noiseless et cetera, but Tony’s pretty interested in the appearance of the jet. Part of his aesthetic-craving side. To be honest, he hasn’t had time. At all. To even start.

 

Well, one can dream.

 

Amidst his thinking Tony must have drifted off because next he finds himself dreaming. His Mama is lounging on the sofa in her room, wearing a pale blue evening gown, glass of juice in hand and stretched out, ankles clad in brown polka-dotted socks thrown over the armrest. As her own little form of rebellion she wears the most outrageous socks under the lengths of her dresses. Tony feels himself walk over and curl into her side; she immediately shifts to accommodate him on the sofa.

 

“Are you tired, Mamma?” 

 

A smile teases at the corner of her lips. “Yes, bambino, I’m tired,” she murmurs, rubbing a hand up his back and letting it rest reassuringly at the base of his neck. “You?”

 

He turns this over in his mind for a moment. “No,” he settles on. “Is Father still mad at me?”

 

His Mama smiles, a tired smile but no less beautiful. “Your father loves you very much,” she murmurs, her other hand playing gently with his slack fingers. “I believe he’s slightly ticked off about how you still refuse to transfer, bambino.”

 

“I like my school,” Tony says, a touch defensively. “I don’t care that it’s not prestigious.”

 

“Your level is too high for them, honey,” Mama soothes with a chuckle. “Of course if you choose to stay I don’t mind. Howard will get over it.”

 

“Does he really- does he really love me?” Tony asks.

 

“Of course,” Mama stands, takes his hands in hers. “I’ll show you.”

 

He lets her lead him out of the room and they walk down the corridor together, Tony being careful not to step on the dragging hem of her evening dress. She turns a sharp right and suddenly-

 

Suddenly they’re in the car, and the brakes are screaming, and the vehicle is swerving uncontrollably. Tony runs at his Mama, and she wraps her arms around him as best as she can, struggling to keep her balance.

 

“Bambino, hold the car door,” she says. Tony turns and reaches out for his door handle, and feels warmth splash onto his back, tingling with foreignity. 

 

“Mamma!” he yells, but he doesn’t need to look back to know it’s red, all over his back and on his hands, on his face. “Il mio bambino, il mio cuore,” his Mama whispers, and Tony-

 

-wakes up with a scream, his Mama’s wide, frightened, beautiful eyes etched into his memory, blood splashed across the windscreen and windows. Tony staggers, kicking over his chair, bracing against the wall and inhaling hard, desperate for air to his starving lungs. His face is wet and his eyes are aching, heart is aching, head is aching, shoulder is aching. He holds it back for a moment, then his knees buckle and he’s curling up, sobbing miserably on the floor, taking in disgustingly wet breaths through his mouth because his nose doesn’t work anymore, frantically scrubbing his hands over his face because Howard might hear, Howard might-

 

Movement catches his eye and he jerks wildly, his heart slamming to a split second of a standstill before he’s pressed back against the wall, desperate, hardly daring to look up through his clumped-together eyelashes at the person he didn’t even notice before.

 

“S-sir,” he whimpers, already bringing his hands up as Howard’s fist enters his vision and a nanosecond is all he has to pray ‘please please not my face’ before said fist slams into his sternum. As he doubles over, gasping as his newfound breath is ripped away once again, he has just enough time to thank God for small mercies before Howard slaps him. Hard enough to make his sight go blinding white and a familiar coppery taste to erupt on his tongue.

 

“Who was it? Who did you have a nightmare about?” 

 

Tony’s heart twists at the mocking tone. He tries to talk but has no air for it and ends up hacking and coughing, turning so that his uninjured right shoulder is facing Howard.

 

“Nobody has the fucking time for nightmares, Anthony,” Howard roars, bringing his fist back again. This time it lands in Tony’s stomach, and he curses himself for not remembering to brace for it because the air is punched right out of his system again, and he’s just chanting in his head to please let me breathe please let me breathe please let me breathe-

 

“Who was it?” Howard yells with a vicious backhand. 

 

“Mamma,” Tony gasps out once he has the air for it, but he immediately sees Howard’s face darken and he automatically knows he made a mistake but he doesn’t know what’s wrong with that and he wishes Howard would just stop and also that his brain would just shut up for once because he can’t, he can’t deal with this much at the same time to the point that his head is hurting-

 

“She’s not your mother,” Howard hisses, looming threateningly above Tony’s quivering form. “Stop holding on to your stupid fantasy.” 

 

Tony looks up slowly, carefully keeping his hands in front of his face. His left shoulder is about to give out from the pressure of the weight of his arm. Howard’s eyes are bloodshot and his pupils are dark with rage. 

 

Once when he’d gone over to Matt’s on a Sunday and they’d been watching Star Trek he remembers Matt asked, “Do you love your old man? I mean, he doesn’t really hang out with you at all.” Tony didn’t freak out, thankfully, and he just shrugged, but later on he came to realise that the answer was, irrevocably, yes.

 

But only because Howard used to love him, him as the him that sneaked into their rooms to curl up in his Mama’s lap. Howard never understood (and still doesn’t understand) how to take care of Tony, but Tony knows without a doubt that Howard used to love him because his Mama had said so, and he trusts his Mama. He remembers beaming as his father tentatively pats his head after showing him his space shuttle design and running through the aisles of the men’s section looking for a tie as a birthday gift for his father. Yet he’s never thought of Howard as anything more than his father, not his padre, not his papà.

 

Of course, that was all Before, and After is now, now with him curled into the wall as far in as he will go, hands clamped over his mouth to stifle sobs leaking out between his fingers. Howard paces in a mock show of contemplation, ignoring his son’s muted whimpering.

 

“It seems I still owe you one game, Anthony,” he murmurs. “Or maybe two. I can’t remember, now. Can you?” 

 

Tony hunches in on himself, torn between making it more than one so Howard won’t think that he’s trying to reduce his punishment or answering as one because it’s too much. He takes too long in answering and takes another kick to his stomach.

 

“Two,” he gasps out finally.

 

Howard rests his chin on his steepled fingers thoughtfully. “Would you like it today? Or tomorrow.”

 

Tony hugs his knees and hides his bruised face from Howard. He chooses to tell the truth, voice shaking almost violently, as if something is vibrating in his throat. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs, choking back a sob at how cowardly he is.

 

“Make that three, then.” 

 

Tony flinches as the door slams, clipping his forearm as it slams. He shudders and pulls himself shakily to a sitting position against the wall. There isn’t as much blood as before; Howard has gone easy on him. Tony cringes as he feels blood running down his arm from his shoulder, which stings with each small movement. He’s having a full-blown migraine. His cracked ribs have been pressed together painfully as he was curled up and he’s feeling it now. Dizzy from the pain, Tony pulls out his bloody mattress and lies down gingerly, the grooves in the grainy material digging into his heated skin. He doesn’t want to sleep, but he has little choice.

  
  
  


Two nightmares, two pieces of bread and two point five hours later, Tony stumbles out of the house. He’s used up all his gauze tape and the bruise he’s sporting on his cheekbone is a little more than subtle, so he’s going to have to find a solution for that. This isn’t his first time showing up in Matt’s place with bruises. He knows Matt is a little put off by them - Matt is too good to say anything but he just knows.

 

“Tony?” Matt also sounds a little shocked when Tony shows up on his doorstep. Tony does it so often, he doesn’t know why Matt isn’t used to it by now.

 

“Hey,” he says shyly, fingers picking at the hem of his baggy sweatshirt again. 

 

“Hey. Come in. You’re lucky my parents are out,” Matt says, opening the door a little wider. “Why did you suddenly come over?”

 

Tony shrugs with his right shoulder. “Felt like it,” he says vaguely. 

 

Matt frowns a little but doesn’t comment as his eyes pass slowly over Tony’s face. Tony really likes that about him. They linger hesitantly in the doorway for a while more, then Matt takes the initiative and steps back, turning to make his way to the kitchen. 

 

“Want something to eat?”

 

Tony shakes his head but Matt doesn’t see, so he wanders after him into the kitchen. The Ansels’ place have always been Tony’s favourite place in the world, clinching first place even above the Library Corner. Their house is small, just a simple mansionette with a cramped attic and three bedrooms. What Tony loves is that their fridge is always stocked with food, their shelves are always filled with volumes, and their couches are always stacked with pillows. Tony shrinks into the corner as Matt rummages around in the refrigerator, “Toast, Tony?”

 

“Okay,” he murmurs, beating a swift retreat to the couch. 

 

He tucks his knees into his chest and focuses on breathing methodically, rubbing absently at his shoulder through the bandage. He can hear Matt moving around in the kitchen and closes his eyes, drawing comfort from the quiet homely atmosphere.

 

He must have drifted off, because when he next opens his eyes Matt is there, peering into his face while shaking his - bad shoulder. Tony bites back a hiss of pain and shrinks further into the couch as Matt waves a piece of french toast in his face. Tony smells eggs. He suddenly realises he’s starving.

 

“Hey man, you wanna talk?”

 

Tony shakes his head as he wolfs down the food. Not really.

 

Matt shrugs easily. “That’s okay. You, uh, wanna watch somethin’?” 

 

Tony smiles shyly. “Where’d we stop?” he asks, scooting over so Matt can have a seat on the couch.

 

“I knew you’d say yes,” Matt laughs. “I already made popcorn.”

 

There’s really no one on the world he loves more than Matt, he thinks. His Mama, probably, if she were still around. Tony keeps the small smile on his face as Matt fetches the popcorn and starts the movie, curling into Matt’s side as per normal. After a while he nods off again, only to be woken up as Matt’s sister Charissa comes home. He somehow feels gratified that Charissa gives a minimal reaction to them, merely throwing a glance at them and disappearing up the stairs.

 

Matt nudges him. “Up for another movie, princess?”

 

Tony scowls; he’s feeling good enough for sarcastic jokes now. “You’re the princess. I’m fine with anything.”

 

Matt grins and goes to put on another movie. “When’re your parents coming home?” Tony asks, burrowing deeper into the blanket.

 

“Tomorrow,” Matt laughs. “If you still don’t want to meet them, you could…leave early tomorrow.”

 

“Or I could leave now,” Tony suggests, watching the darkening sky. Howard should be asleep by now. It’s almost midnight. At least that’s what he hopes. Howard could be waiting for him for all he knew.

 

“Mm. Stay, Tony,” Matt throws over his shoulder casually, and Tony smiles as he hunches in on himself.

 

He seriously, seriously loves Matt.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just 2K of pure Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP this doesn’t mean I’m going to update more frequently. I was free and I decided to write! *cuts to scene of me writing in class*
> 
> Anyway, I’m trying to get y’all to know more about the backstories of everyone in this AU so I’m letting Tony interact with someone in every chapter! And this time it’s Nat. 
> 
> #clintashaisthecutest

When Clint wakes up, he gets a faceful of messy red hair.

 

“Aw, Nat,” he murmurs, lifting her gently off him and scooting over to switch off the alarm clock. Natasha sometimes gets nightmares, from her time working for her mob boss father as a child. And maybe it’s twisted, but he likes that about their small group, that they’re all a little broken and know what’s going on with each other.

 

Nat grumbles a little and turns over. Her shirt has rucked up to her ribs, and Clint tries not to stare at the graceful slope of her back too much. He clambers out of bed (she mutters a little and reaches for him but he needs to make breakfast, dammit!) and heads out, stretching and throwing on a sweatshirt as he does. It’s getting colder, and for good measure he pulls on a windbreaker as well.

 

It’s only when he stacks the waffles on a plate and drizzles them with syrup that she emerges, a ruffled heap of discontentment under two scarves and a down jacket - it’s not  _ that _ cold, but Nat isn’t a fan of winter, eyes narrowed under still-bedraggled red curls.

 

“Food?” she says intelligibly. 

 

Clint nods and passes the plate to her, turning to whip up a second batch, but is surprised when she crowds up against his back and tucks her cold nose into his neck.

 

“It was a bad one,” she admits. He can feel her slow exhale against his skin.

 

“Mm,” Clint murmurs, trying to judge if this is the kind of “bad” that deserves lightening up with good mood or the kind of “bad” that needs to be taken seriously. When Nat sniffs and tightens her arms around his shoulders, he decides it’s a lighten-up situation.

 

“Hey, look alive, it’s Friday,” he laughs, poking her nose. She frowns at him but says nothing, lowering her head to take a bite out of her waffle.

 

“It’s Friday and for once you didn’t get me to make pancakes?” she asks. It’s not true that she cooks every time, but Clint is notoriously incorrigible when pestering her for heavenly pancakes. 

 

“I’m sure I’ll get sick of it if I eat too much,” he shoots back. “Even your pancakes. You’re making ‘em tomorrow though, aren’t you?”

 

Nat shakes her head. “They’re not coming over tomorrow,” she says, wrapping her cold fingers around each other. “Bruce is going for this Science Convention and I’m going with him. Steve and Buck and Sam have their match. Dunno what Thor’s up to.” She smiles, and he smiles back at the adorable splash of pink across the tips of her cheekbones. “And you, Clinton, are coming to the Convention with me.”

 

“Why?” Clint whines, “I made waffles!”

 

“They’re burnt,” Nat says.

 

Clint whips around and cranks the heat down. “Yours aren’t!” he protests.

 

“The smell makes me wanna throw up!” Nat sing-songs, already out of the kitchen and curled up on the couch with a glass of juice. Clint swears she does everything super quickly just to freak him out.

 

“Eat it! We gonna go soon.”

 

Nat smiles at him. He smiles back, because he loves her a lot.

  
  
  
  
  


“Class, I know it’s Finals week-”

 

Everyone groans on reflex. Tony only does it in his head, because his throat hurts. He ended up sleeping on the couch - not that he blames anyone for that, it’s not like there’s anywhere else to sleep - and out of stupidity he kicked the covers off in his sleep and now he’s stuck with a mild headache and fever. It’s fine, though. 

 

“-and there has to be a ‘Final’ for your History too,” Miss Hill finishes, scowling at whoever groaned the loudest. “Historical Investigation. Pair work. And-” She raises her voice above the immediate clamouring that breaks out in class. “I will be assigning your pairings.”

 

Another collective groan. Tony sighs and slumps further down in his seat. At least he had a hope of going alone. Now Miss Hill will assign him with someone - he knows it, she keeps giving him these cryptic glances that say “I know you have no friends and can’t you just let me help you?” - and Tony can’t do much, he’s socially awkward and he freaks out a lot. He drops his head onto his table to slow his breathing down. 

 

“Stop!” Miss Hill orders, and the exasperated murmuring tapers off slowly. “It’ll be by register order. Don’t complain! It’s what you get.”

 

Tony lifts his head blearily as Clint Barton lets out a huge “whoop!” and jumps over chairs to sit on Barnes’ table. He has no idea what the register is; he switches his gaze to Miss Hill but instead meets cold green eyes. Involuntarily a shiver climbs up his spine. Natasha Romanov, and she even looks thrilled to be working with him. He knows she’s been trying to figure out what’s wrong with him, and while he wishes she’d just leave him alone, a small pathetic part of him also hopes that she’ll find out and- help him, somehow. Make him get better so people around him don’t get angry. So people who love him don’t die.

 

Tony offers a tentative smile, but Romanov doesn’t react, tilting her head as if he’s a zoo animal behind a glass wall. Tony gives up and keeps his head down, closing his eyes to stop the onslaught of panic.

 

It’s okay, he thinks loudly to himself. It’s okay, she doesn’t need to find anything out. You can be better than her.

 

You want her to find out, admit it.

 

You want her to find out because you’re attention-seeking and nobody has entertained you in a long time, haven’t they?

 

Tony sighs and rubs at his temples. His forehead is slightly warmer than he remembers from this morning, but it’s still okay. It’s always okay. It’s true though. Nobody has entertained him in a long, long time. Only his Mama was brave enough to put up with him, and look where that got her.

 

Tony is not looking forward to this weekend.

  
  
  
  


Natasha is looking forward to this weekend.

 

Really, the only reason why she agreed to go to Bruce’s oh-so-wonderful science convention was because she knew Stark would be going. Stark, the smaller-than-life personality, surrounded by rumours. He’s literally wearing what he wears every single day, she thinks. An old hoodie - old by the way the colour has faded from black to somewhat dark grey - and a turtleneck sweatshirt. Stark never ever wears short sleeves, she’s realised, not even in the summer (though he does get rid of that god-awful ten-year-old hoodie). Stark seems to have a never-ending supply of sweatshirts; he has a faded one with the MIT logo emblazoned on it, but he doesn’t brag about it or shove it in others’ faces like what she expected. For a long time, Natasha has come to realise that Stark is not what they say about him, but then what?

 

She makes eye contact with him, and he smiles shakily, like he’s not sure what to do. It’s kind of adorable. She contemplates smiling back, but immediately he looks down and studies his fingers, obviously having lost interest. 

 

Whatever. For a moment she wonders why he’s next to her on the register list, then she realises it’s their last names. Romanov, Stark. At least it isn’t Stane, she thinks, exhaling slowly through her mouth. He’s the worst.

 

Clint looks at her sympathetically and she doesn’t understand why. She’s excited to work with Stark. He just shrugs and says, “He’s a dick.” 

 

She doesn’t say anything, but she finds it disappointing how Clint easily gets fooled by the rumours. From what she’s gathered, Stark is easily distracted, picky, and gets lost in thought very, very often, but he’s also creative, thoughtful and extremely, simply normal. He’s not different from anyone. But he has some weird quirks that she thinks might come from a life of living in the spotlights - hiding in broom closets when he needs to think (she doesn’t believe he was jerking off, Sam likes to exaggerate), keeping his car somewhere else so nobody wrecks it (she’s seen him walking away from school), never doing his homework at school but rushing it in the mornings or during breaks. He also never eats during break (well, technically it’s a fourth meal, but everybody eats), disappears from the canteen during lunch break (really, he does, she checks! around the school!), and has the widest confused eyes (surely too cute to be a media tactic) whenever he doesn’t understand during class. This rarely happens - one thing that isn’t wrong about the rumours is that Stark is astonishingly intelligent. He went to MIT before Shield High, she already knows, but his father pulled him out for some reason and he transferred. She also knows that he does not flash it in other’s faces, again unexpectedly. Now she can see that he’s much quieter than they give credit for, but still has a fast-running mouth and a faster-running mind if confronted. Yes, confronted, because the kid has next to zero social life and whenever someone approaches him he starts looking around like searching for exits and places to run away to.

 

Natasha doesn’t like to think of herself as a stalker. Just… just a investigator. Which is why, when break comes around, she buys two cookie-and-cream milkshakes (she once saw Stark drinking one - okay she is NOT a stalker, the guy just intrigues her! and she’s in a relationship!) and brings them up to the class, where Stark is hunched over his Math scribbling at the speed of light. Seriously, all that hunching he does. She wonders briefly if his back is okay before placing the milkshake down on his desk.

 

Stark jerks, a full-body movement, his hand trembles like it’s having a seizure and his pen drops onto the floor. Socially awkward might be an understatement, she thinks, lips curling a little in amusement.

 

“Uh, hi,” he mutters, eyes darting all over her face as if he doesn’t know where to look. My eyes, maybe? she thinks, but he gives up and eventually looks down at the milkshake.

 

“It’s for you,” she offers.

 

Stark’s mouth opens. Closes. Natasha watches with mild interest.

 

“I- I’m sorry, I don’t-” he looks at her. “Why are you giving me this?”

 

“’Cause you’re my partner for Investigation, and I think we could, y’know, not be awkward.” Natasha lifts an eyebrow at him because now is the very definition of awkward.

 

Stark flushes, face turning red. “I’m - sorry,” he settles on finally, then pulls out his wallet. She has never seen it before (OH GOD NOT A STALKER, SERIOUSLY) and she’s surprised that it’s just a simple worn-leather wallet, not the rich-people kind she sees on the television, the glossy, shiny kind that makes your eyes hurt. Stark pulls out four dollars and offers them to her. She notices that look again, those confused eyes, that tired gaze.

 

“What?” she asks. “It’s for you. I bought it for you. I don’t need the money.”

 

Stark frowns. “Huh?”

 

She shoves the money back at him. “Take it,” she orders, filtering a little bit of steel into her eyes. He hesitates, hand hovering, before he relents and puts the money back, finally settling into a familiar position, staring resolutely at his homework.

 

“Stark,” she begins, but he shakes his head.

 

“Tony,” he bites his lip. “Call me Tony.”

 

“Tony,” she corrects. They’re getting somewhere! “When do you wanna meet up? At my place, or… yours?”

 

A nanosecond next Tony is shaking his head manically. “Yours, yours,” he says. She thinks she recognises this. She can tell he really adores his father and wishes to impress him, but at the same time is fearful of him. She once had that feeling too.

 

Then suddenly Tony changes his mind. “Library? Can we do library?”

 

“Mm, sure. Is Sunday good?”

 

Tony squints, thinking. “Tomorrow?”

 

Natasha sees a chance. Natasha seizes the chance. “I’m going to this convention thing. With Brucie.”

 

At the mention of Bruce, Tony’s eyes light up. “Bruce Banner? I’m going too! I’m going too! He didn’t tell me he was going!”

 

Natasha smiles at him. Tony remembers himself and blushes so hard Nat worries that he might just die of shame, ducking his head, hands flying to twist themselves in his sweatshirt. She’s noticed it’s an embarrassed habit.

 

“Uh, sorry,” Tony says. “After the convention we can… maybe grab a coffee, then go to the Library?”

 

“I thought you couldn’t eat in the Library.” She doesn’t go to the library much at all, and she only knows the librarian because he once lent her an umbrella. She doubts he remembers, though.

 

“If you’re with me, you can,” Tony says indifferently. Then he seem to realise what that sounds like. “No! No, uh, I meant, the librarian knows me, and well, we have an agreement, because I need coffee when I’m reading and whatever mess I make I have to clean up myself but that’s okay,” he says in a rush. Natasha barely has time to process the words as they flow through her brain. That was weird.

 

“Cool. It’s a date, then,” she winks at him, just for the fun of seeing him splutter. Everyone says that Tony Stark is an infamous playboy that flirts with anything with an ass, but Nat doubts the guy has even had sex. And he shouldn’t. He’s still underage, technically. 

 

Once again, she finds herself being disappointed at Clint for simply not seeing the rumours for what they are. Illogical, imaginary, and ridiculous.

 

Natasha is looking forward to the convention.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Howard play games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay please don’t read this it’s so bad  
> it’s legit so bad i almost cried writing it because it’s too much whump and it’s super duper dark but if y’all are weird like me that will probably just encourage you to read it more it’s just very bad and it’s just full of abuse it’s nothing but abuse please don’t hate me i’m a horrible person i don’t even know if i was in a good or bad mood last night

It’s Friday.

Tony shivers as he climbs into his room through his window and lowers himself to a sitting position, back against the cupboard in his most comfortable position. Howard isn’t home yet, but Tony hates it when he has to wait.

It wasn’t always like this. When Mama was alive Howard was distant, but not overly so. Interactions between father and son were somewhat limited and awkward but Tony treasured them, golden moments for him when Howard shot him an uncertain smile or introduced him to potential business partners as ‘my son’.

Tony knows Howard blames him for his Mama’s death, and he knows because he blames himself to. It’s been one and a half years and he still cannot stomach getting into a car because he’ll be dragged back into that day and his Mama will be in the backseat smiling at him as beautiful as she always was and the next time he lays eyes on her there will be crimson all over her.

There is a List, Tony knows, of things he can’t take. It’s embarrassingly long, and it’s all in his head so that nobody find it and see what a pathetic person he is. Small spaces, lengthy silences, blood in his eyes, loud engines, opening his eyes underwater (he can but he doesn’t want to), live wires.

There’s also a List of Howard’s games, he remembers as the front door opens, ominously.

“ANTHONY,” Howard yells, the sound reverberating through the whitewashed, empty corridors of the too-big mansion. Tony shivers again, glances desperately at his bed and for a moment actually realistically considers burrowing under the blankets like the lead character in a bad horror flick. He counts the seconds under his breath and after one minute stands up and opens the door cautiously.

He’s not prepared for the fist and the thought that slams into him along with the impact of the wall is that Howard can move surprisingly silently when he wants to. 

Howard never moves silently. He knows the rhythmic sound of his footsteps means impending doom and sparks apprehension, both in the business rival and Tony, of course. This blow is entirely unexpected and leaves Tony spluttering, blood already dribbling from the corners of his mouth where he has bitten his lip; he struggles to orientate himself, hands scrabbling along the smooth marble to hoist himself up. Howard doesn’t give him a chance, lifting him by the collar and dragging upwards so Tony’s feet are lifted off the ground. The sudden change causes the fragile axis of Tony’s world to tilt savagely. Head spinning, he fights for air as Howard tightens his grip. 

With the meagre amount of air he’s being served, he catches a whiff of alcohol. That’s not good. Howard drinks, but not as frequently as the media likes to imagine. Something bad must have happened.

“Sir,” he chokes out.

“How much do I owe you?” Howard asks, almost casually as if he isn’t strangling his son to near-death. Tony hacks, jerking in Howard’s grip, hands flying to grip Howard’s forearm.

For a moment his vision swims and his head pounds, so loud he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he thinks, this is how I’m going to die. But Howard lets go and suddenly he meets the floor, impact driving him to his knees and causing him to slump forward into a gasping, coughing mess. Howard lifts his foot and Tony braces himself as the leather shoe slams into his barely-healed ribs. He hears a crack and clamps a hand over his mouth as he screams.

A minute passes with both of them breathing heavily, trying to regain their bearings, Howard from the dizzying combination of alcohol and unadulterated rage, Tony from the haze of pain and panic. “How much do I owe you, boy?” Howard repeats, quieter this time, eyes fixed on Tony’s back as it heaves up and down, the boy taking deep breaths while he can.

“Three games,” Tony whispers, closing his eyes.

It’s no use; he feels a tear slip out as Howard grabs his forearms with a bruising grip and hoists him up, twisting his arms painfully. He whimpers a little and tries to get his feet under him but his pace is too slow for Howard and he finds himself being dragged along, searing pain erupting from his left shoulder and newly-hurt ribs. Finally he gets to his knees and then his feet and stumbles after Howard. Howard suddenly turns and shoves him against the wall, delivering a terrifyingly accurate uppercut to his jaw that causes his head to crash into the wall behind. He must have blacked out for a bit, because when he next comes to his head is hurting painfully, blood is running down the side of his neck and he’s on the edge of the steps leading down into the main hall. His heart lurches as if trying to escape when realisation strikes him.

“For the first game, we’re going to play Stairs,” Howard comments, pleasantly enough, even as he pulls his belt from around his waist. Tony immediately grabs on to the banister but the first strike - to his bad shoulder! Oh God please no - has him wailing, dropping on his ass and desperately scrambling backwards, the individual pillars along the banister digging painfully into his back. 

Howard lifts the belt again and he shies away, automatically throwing his hands up to cover his face. In this situation, Tony has no choice but to protect the most important. Blood is rushing through his ears and his brain is pounding. The belt cracks over his right leg and he whimpers, curling around that new area because now it’s second important. He can’t afford to get another hit in the same place; he’s done calculations and past experiences have led him to realise that the belt’s damage and pain ratio causes him to pass out after the second hit to a concentrated area and passing out does not improve Howard’s mood -

The next crack is on his back, left exposed as he hunches over. He gasps out a little, breath already torn from his straining lungs, and tries to shift around but it’s too late, the second hit is coming down and the buckle digs into his wounded skin and Tony feels the skin break and Tony howls -

Another kick to the ribs - Tony has no more air to scream but it hurts, hurts, hurts - sends him sprawling, almost losing his balance and falling. He immediately scoots backwards, wrapping his fingers around the banister’s pillars, choking on a sob as the pillars press against his back. The next hit lands on his right side and he doubles over, turning to offer his left side to Howard because his right has taken enough, just not his shoulder not his shoulder not his shoulde-

Howard cracks the belt over his left shoulder.

Tony loses his grip as he screams and the world starts to spin as he crashes, falling down each individual step, each impact from the floor coming up to meet him sending shockwaves of harsh pain through his system. He leaves a disgusting bloody trail behind as he finally crashes to a standstill on the first floor, dizzy from blood loss, every cell and nerve internally screaming from the pain, eyes numb from all the tears.

Howard is coming down the steps and Tony tries to move but he can’t, he really can’t, it’s too much and he wishes Howard would just kill him- 

“For our next game,” Howard continues demurely, “we could play Choices. Don’t you agree, Anthony?”

No. No, no, no. 

Tony groans, tries to move. Fails.

“Arm or leg, Anthony?”

“Please, sir.” He’s not above begging. He hurts too much. He should’ve known better, should’ve taken two games yesterday. 

“What was that? Both?”

“Arm! Arm,” he cries. His right ankle feels sprained from when he fell down the stairs and there’s an ugly welt on his calf from the belt. He doesn’t think his leg can take anymore.

Howard grabs his arm and twists. Before Tony even has a chance to open his mouth he flips him over so his cracked ribs, hurt stomach and split lip are pressed into the cold, hard floor. Tony’s howl is muffled as his left shoulder- he doesn’t have a word for it anymore it’s too much, too much and he’s thrashing weakly but Howard just keeps going - 

He’s on the verge of blackness when Howard lets go and Tony crumples with a relieved sob. He can’t tell which is worse, that Howard didn’t let go or that Howard didn’t hold on so he could finally finally black out and be rid of everything.

“Round Two. Ribs or Shoulder, Anthony?”

Tony feels the blood rush out of his face as if running for its life. “No no no no no no please please” he gasps. Ribs take forever to heal and his shoulder just- can’t. He braces his arms against the floor, trying to drag himself away from the threat, he can’t take anymore, he knows he should be better but it’s too much! It’s too much.

“Shall I make a decision for you, then?”

“Ribs, RIBS!” he says, and it comes out as a breathless whine. Howard sneers, then crashes his foot into his ribs. Tony reaches out for something to hold on to but can’t find anything so he careens into the wall, scream torn to shreds in his broken throat. He’s sure his ribs are broken now. He should’ve chosen shoulder. He’s sorry. For what he doesn’t know. It hurts a lot.

“What’s Game number Three gonna be, Anthony?”

Tony shakes his head. “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he tires to say, but it gets stuck in his throat. He’s struggling to breathe because tears are clogging his system and his heart hurts. Howard is coming closer, and Tony feels his breathing get impossibly quicker; he’s hyperventilating now, each breath causing pain to course through his chest and blood to drip from his mouth and nose and it’s too much, he just wants to-

-pass out - 

He wakes up to a rattle and a low growl of “fucking worthless”. He opens his eyes but not quite because around him is black darkness and suddenly he realises he’s in the Cabinet, in the Cabinet and he can’t-

“Please sir,” he groans, but it’s so soft even he can’t hear himself over the sounds of distress seemingly coming out of his mouth of their own accord. “Please no no no, please let me out, I can do better, please.”

There’s no sound from the other side, then a huge jolt that sends the whole Cabinet shivering and Tony gasps, heart jerking and he clutches at his chest. The Cabinet is barely big enough for him and his legs are twisted uncomfortably, shoulders un-aligned and digging painfully into the metal.

He opens his mouth but has no voice to speak after all that screaming, so he raises his hands and scratches weakly at the metal door with his fingertips. Howard doesn’t know he has a concussion, and won’t open the door. I might just die, he thinks suddenly. 

“Please…”

Still no movement, no trace of life. He whines, drifts more, then wakes drowsily; he’s had a nightmare but has forgotten it. His fingernails are cracked and bleeding from unconsciously scratching at the door. His head is spinning from blood loss and his head hurts. His eyes are numb and silent tears are still coursing down his cheeks, swollen from slaps. More aimless drifting, and when he next comes to there’s light shining from under the Cabinet door. “Please,” he gasps out, fingers trembling, in too much pain to try opening the door. He knows the door is unlocked but has no strength to push it open. His muscles have turned to liquid as his brain is buzzing loudly in his hazy mind. He can only sit there, cramped into the tiny space, crying silently and hating himself for being so fucking pathetic. 

Just reach out and push on the door, it’ll open.

Can’t, he thinks tiredly, closing his eyes. It’s the same, just darkness behind and in front of his eyelids, and it’s too much. Tony thinks he’ll lie here until he gives out and dies.

Then there’re footsteps, careful and light not like Howard’s and the door is being pulled open and the light is blinding - knives digging into his retinas, and the voice that speaks is full of horror. 

“Tony?!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! if you guys wanna talk to me, maybe leave me some prompts or whatnot, y’all can leave your tumblrs! (i have a tumblr but i only use it to browse others’ feed so don’t really bother looking at my feed haha)
> 
> once again, love y’all and if you want me to specifically reply to your comments i would be happy to do so ! (*´∇｀*)
> 
> this chapter was written on my phone, which autocorrects to past tense whenever it’s given the chance so if there are typos forgive me!

Pepper is having a bad day. The most clichéd bad day, too. She argued with Jim over something unbelievably petty, and although he’d calmed down by the time he left, he’d barely looked at her. Pepper isn’t hurt - she loves Jim and she knows Jim loves her and she knows this isn’t the end of their relationship by any means. What she’s feeling now can be classified as more - annoyed, pretty much. It’s getting on her nerves. They argue a lot now, mostly because Howard is expecting more and more of Pepper (he’s stressed, she can tell) and she doesn’t have much time for Jim. She knows he doesn’t blame her, but that puts him on edge and he tends to lose it over small matters.

 

It’s not just his fault. But she knows they’ll get over it. Just not her best day.

 

She’s tired as she makes her way to the Stark mansion, already near the end of her rope at 9A.M. It’s too hot for so early in the morning, and Pepper stops at the first-floor bathroom to retie her hair (she has to attempt twice) before heading upstairs, somewhat disgruntled.

 

It’s not true that she doesn’t like the Stark mansion; she just… is unsettled by it. She’d expect such a big area to be full of human life, bustling maids and impeccable butlers and a hotel-grade waiting room. Heck, if there were a concierge or a counter for someone to answer to your whims she wouldn’t have been surprised. While all that is true for Stark Tower, just a 5-minute drive away, the mansion itself is cold and empty like a churchyard. She doesn’t blame Tony for wanting to get out. She can tell Howard doesn’t spend a lot of time here.

 

Surprisingly enough, on weekends, he starts his work here. She guesses it’s because Tony is out most weekends, and they don’t exactly have the best relationship. She reports to his home office at 9, and he works his way through paperwork before heading to the Tower for meetings. 

 

When she reaches the office, Howard isn’t there. There’s a connecting room in the side for her to work in, so she sets up her laptop and busies herself. When he still doesn’t turn up after half an hour, Pepper starts to feel the first threads of anger. She wouldn’t put it past Howard to still be sleeping. It’s his house, after all, and he must be sporting a pretty good hangover from the party last night. Pepper has woken him once before, and she will do it again, dammit!

 

Howard’s house obviously has a pretty solid security system, and Pepper has a limited but still readily available access to the data feed from the numerous circuit cameras around the mansion. She taps into the feed from her laptop and flicks through the channels - Howard obviously doesn’t have a camera in his room specifically, but she can have a look at the corridors and decide for herself whether he’s out, or she’ll have to waste time sifting through the huge mansion for her boss’s bedroom.

 

What is her life? Pepper sighs tiredly, and that’s when she sees something move.

 

She enlarges the screen and sees the movement is coming from the feed in the garage. A cupboard is shaking so hard it looks like it’s about to explode, and Pepper’s heart jumps wildly - her brain offering a list of deadly possibilities; Howard kidnapped, a terrorist attack - Christ, they could still be in the house.

 

Calm down, Pepper, she thinks, tapping her fingers against the mahogany of her table. The shaking has died down, and there is no movement except for occasional twitches to prove life still exists in the cabinet. It’s just an animal that got stuck inside. Something got in and didn’t know how to get out. That’s all.

 

Gathering up her courage, Pepper goes downstairs. One of Howard’s fancy cars isn’t there, and she hopes that he’s out, not kidnapped or dying or whatever. If it were night, she highly doubts she would have had the courage - she would have calmly packed up her belongings and left, probably took sick leave for a week or two.

 

The cupboard is still now, but she hears a little noise of distress. It doesn’t sound creepy or that it should belong in a horror movie, so she relaxes mildly. Just an animal, Virginia! she scolds herself mentally. Still, it takes some nerve to fling the door open and step away quickly in case whatever it is flies out in a state of panic.

 

It’s lucky the washroom was so close to the front door, or Pepper wouldn’t have made it there in time to throw up.

  
  
  


Tony is whimpering quietly in the bathroom when she comes back with the emergency first-aid she found in Howard’s office. There’s a small puddle of crimson steadily growing around his hunched-over outline on the floor. She doesn’t even know where to start, he’s literally covered in blood, little drops staining the floor as hs shivers in his sleep.

 

Pepper settles for wiping the blood off with the softest rag she could find to identify the places she needs to tend to. Tony’s face scrunches a little and he shifts to the side, away from her. Pepper feels like a thirteen-year-old again, trying to comfort her little brother when their parents had their rare quarrels. Once the rag is soaked with blood she drops it in the sink and scans him, terrified of what she’ll find if she lifts his torn shirt. After a tense silence Pepper gets to action, sorting out the categorisation of the injuries in her head. She quickly identifies his shoulder and ribs as Level Threes - the flesh of his shoulder is torn and his ribcage looks sickeningly dented. His twisted wrist, right leg and back look like Level Twos, and if he slept with a concussion that’s not good. 

 

Right now, Pepper can’t deal with all that, so she picks up her phone. When the call connects she starts talking before Jim has a chance to:

 

“I’m at Stark Mansion; I need your help.”

  
  
  


Jim comes as quickly as he can, and for that she’s grateful, that the slight rift between them didn’t diminish the level-headedness and gentle concern that she fell in love with. He takes one look at the situation and motions for Pepper to bring the unconscious boy into a room with a bed. Pepper’s half-scared the assailant is still in the house, so she settles for setting him down on the monstrously big couch in the waiting room downstairs. Jim gives him a once-over and immediately goes for Tony’s left shoulder; Pepper’s gratified her judgment wasn’t all wrong, even if she didn’t have the capability to act on it. She watches Jim calmly wrap gauze around it after washing the wound. 

 

“Who the fuck?” he says after the kid’s condition is stable, anger underlining every syllable.

 

“Dunno,” Pepper mutters, keeping her gaze on his so that he can tell she really doesn’t. He’s told her before he can see lies in the shadow of her eyes. In all honest truth, she’s never been more glad for his military medical training, even if it’s kept him away from home more than once.

 

He exhales slowly and rubs his forehead. “It’s dangerous here,” he says finally. “We should go home. Then call your boss and update him. We don’t know how many of them there are. His wounds are really - I doubt one person would have the… rage to do it.”

 

“Go home with him?” Pepper asks. Tony’s head is tucked into her side, his shallow breath tickling her skin through the fabric of her blouse. She wants to, but it feels a little too much like kidnapping.

 

“C’mon. Your boss can’t sue us. It makes sense.” Jim packs up the first aid and places the kit on the coffee table. “Plus, we can take better care of him there. Howard isn’t even home half the time. He’s one to talk.”

 

Pepper chuckles. She can see James’ overprotective streak, as obvious as a splash of black against snow. “Told you you’d get attached once you saw him.”

 

Jim scoffs without any trace of real heat. “Yeah, that’s different, ’cause when we met he was bleeding out, and it was pretty bad.” Pepper watches the smile slide off his face as he looks Tony over once again. 

 

“Let’s go, then.” She can tell Jim is seething.

  
  
  
  


Tony feels like he’s floating on the clouds.

 

Around him is softness and quiet; gentle wind whispering over his face. His eyes are raw and sore from crying and there’s still a mild ache at his temples and shoulder, but mercifully enough nothing else seems to hurt. He shifts experimentally; his ribs give a pang of protest but otherwise he can’t feel anything else. 

 

Maybe he’s dead, he thinks hopefully, pulling his crusted-together eyes open. 

 

It’s dark, but light enough that he can see the outline of the ceiling fan, the shadows it casts a shade blacker on the walls. He turns his head and sees that the floor-length curtains of the room are drawn, pockets of sunlight seeping from the edges. He’s lying somewhat stretched out on a comfortable queen-size, the comforter and duvet hugging his skin intimately. Not heaven, but close enough. Tony hums in pleasure and presses his cheek into the soft pillow. 

 

_ I must look like shit _ , the thought tumbles through his mind. 

 

“At least there isn’t anyone around to see you,” he mumbles blearily into the pillow.

 

He scans the bedside table briefly for his phone - he’d like to call someone, maybe Matt, maybe Bruce. Probably Bruce, because if it were Matt he can’t help but be pathetic because Matt already knows a bit about… it all. Bruce knows nothing, and won’t treat him as such. Decision made, Tony lifts himself up, craning his neck to search- and  remembers he doesn’t have Bruce’s number.

 

He laughs a little at himself before he lets his mind wander. He is aware, perhaps overly so, of how his brain goes a little too fast at time. Most times he hates it, like when it gives him a headache or just distracts him, but in times like these he openly seeks a diversion. He’s too confused and too tired to resolve that confusion, so he settles for closing his eyes and thinking, sifting through images and text - schoolwork he hasn’t done: he stores that away; Dum-E, he was so excited too, for the-

 

Tony jerks into a sitting position, his shoulder throbs and his ribs clench and he lets out a small cry. Science convention, science convention, how could he have forgotten? He’s panicking now, head running in circles, the colours of the dark room shifting and warping over one another. He clutches at the headboard and gasps, each sharp intake of breath torture to his ribcage. Shit, he shouldn’t swear but he should’ve known, should’ve known, should’ve known-

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

Tony lifts his head slowly; the moment of panic has passed and now everything seems to be underwater. You’re a disgrace, Howard’s voice murmurs, sound so low it barely reaches his ears. He meets warm black eyes and the edges of his vision tints white, because it’s never seen these eyes before, he’s never seen them before and he doesn’t want to think about what this means-

 

“Kid! Tony. Hey, you’re safe man. You’re safe.”

 

The strange man lifts his hand and Tony looks at it. There’s nothing in it. Puzzled, he looks back up but the man nods at his hand. Tony keeps his gaze trained on the hand as it moves slowly towards him. When it touches his forearm he flinches, but the warm weight of the fingers remain and he relaxes a little, relishing the feeling of being touched. It feels great, he remembers now. 

 

When the guy hesitantly pulls away Tony actually chases the feeling, reaching out on automatic before remembering himself and immediately shifting back. How needy is that? He keeps his eyes down, but the guy is back and he wraps his arms around him. It feels great, skin against skin in so many places and Tony curls into the touch. 

 

Not quite heaven, but close enough.

 

Science convention, his brain provides sluggishly, but Tony gives out and his eyes are already closing, his feeble attempts knocked down by the feeling of gentle touch and painless existence.

 

Once again, Tony is floating on clouds.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convention!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m trying to reach my goal of like,, 2k words per update :)

Stark isn’t here.

 

Natasha rests her chin on her steepled fingers, watching Bruce as he talks to a crowd of interested viewers about his bio-something project. He explained it to her before they arrived, but she wasn’t exactly - listening, and after a while he gave up too.

 

She’s surprised, and quite upset at herself that Stark still possesses the ability to surprise her. Nat feels somewhat bothered that he isn’t here. It isn’t normal. He’d be so excited about it and about Bruce going too, yesterday, and it just isn’t human nature, y’know?

 

Everyone says rich people are eccentric and live differently. Nat’s always been determined that it isn’t the case, but now she’s wondering if she should revise her opinion.

 

“NAT! Nat, look what I found!” Clint materialises next to her, excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on! Check it out!”

 

What a child. A lovable child. She lets him lead her through the overwhelming mass of people and to an unmanned booth. Instead of a person, there’s a robot there, inquisitively beeping and peering at everyone as they gather around him, both parties curious about the other.

 

“Dude, that’s adorable,” she says. 

 

“Knew I could make you say the a-word eventually,” Clint winks at her. 

 

She rolls her eyes. “It isn’t even about you, honey. Whose is it?”

 

Clint points to the engraving on the side of its arm as it extends its claw toward them. Dum-E. She smiles; the name suits the little guy letter for letter. 

 

“Who made him? Prof Reed?” she asks.

 

“Dunno, don’t think so. He looks like a kid’s work. He’s really the star of the show, ain’t he? The creator isn’t around, looks like.” 

 

Dum-E points his sensors to the ground and carefully wheels around, managing to avoid everyone’s feet. The crowd cheers and Nat grins at the robot.

 

“He must be a genius.”

  
  
  
  
  


Dum-E must be terrified.

 

Tony is running, ribs scraping against one another, each pull of breath to his lungs a sharp, stinging pain. His right leg is screaming but he doesn’t let up. Only when his vision starts to cloud does he grind to an abrupt halt and crash into a wall. Disoriented, he wobbles for a bit before peering around blearily. The bus is steadily advancing toward the bus stop. Just in time.

 

Tony lets out a shuddering breath and digs in his jacket pocket for change. His savings are at home so he’ll have to go lunch-less today, but that’s okay, just as it’s been okay for the last two days.

 

Another bout of dizziness strikes as he gets on the bus and he stumbles backwards, back striking the fare meter painfully. He offers a muttered apology at the confused bus driver and scurries into the back of the bus, finding a seat and taking it.

 

He drifts off for most of the ride, the steady hum of engine beneath his feet. He dreams of Pepper crying, tears sliding smoothly down her pale cheeks, eyes full of betrayal. When he jerks awake, heart thumping against his damaged ribs, he knows who the look was meant for. And he knows he’s going to try very, very hard not to make the dream a reality. 

 

Yet some things Tony just can’t avoid, like how everyone around him gets hurt. For a brief moment he wishes Pepper hadn’t found him.

 

Pepper and Mr. Rhodes hadn’t been happy when he left. He doesn’t think they’ll be the kind to punish him, but he doesn’t know anymore. They’d said he needed more sleep, shouldn’t go out in this condition - but Dum-E must be terrified.

 

Heart in his throat, Tony gets off at his stop and heads for the science convention. He knows he looks horrible, sleep-mussed hair and dark eye circles along with a pounding migraine, but he just has to tough it out, for Dum-E.

 

The convention is full of people, too many people. Tony stumbles through the crowd, listening for a familiar beep from the friend he built from scratch. The noise is overwhelming, threatening to pull him under. Tony backs up against a wall, clutches his ears with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to gain some sense of direction.

 

“Tony,” someone murmurs and there’s an arm around him, leading him gently. He presses himself up against that and clutches onto his saviour as he’s led somewhere less loud, less bright. He winces his eyes open and looks up to see Bruce.

 

Thank fucking God. “Thanks,” he mutters, burying his wet face - he hasn’t even noticed he’s been crying - into Bruce’s side and hoping that’s okay because he can’t do anything else, he’s so tired.

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

Now the questions, he thinks tiredly. “Just didn’t sleep. Woke up late. S’rry.”

 

Bruce grins. “Can relate. You ready to go back?”

 

Tony lifts his head to look at Bruce. His smile is warm and encouraging, with an underlayer of curiosity. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” he lies with an answering smile. “Can you find me Dum-E?”

  
  
  
  


Clint is playing simple fetch with Dum-E like a dog when Nat sees him. Tony Stark, leaning heavily against Bruce, face flushed pale and looking so unhealthy Nat almost wants to stay away from him.

 

“Dum-dum?” he calls quietly and the robot spins away from Clint in a whirlwind-like movement, legitimately flying across the space between himself and Stark, making the most exaggerated beeps and clicks like a dolphin. Nat notes that Tony’s hands are trembling as he reaches out to touch Dum-E.

  
  
  
  


_ Worth it _ , Tony thinks as Dum-E chases his fingers affectionately, nipping on them as best as he can with an arm and a claw. Tony wants to kiss him on the “head” like he always does but everyone is staring and he settles for petting him on the head. Dum-E spins circles around him, whirring enthusiastically. I love you I love you I love you, Tony thinks. He’s still afraid to say it out loud.

 

“Stark, that yours?”

 

He looks up to see that he’s still leaning on Bruce and hastily rights himself, standing on his own two feet somewhat unsteadily. Dum-E whirs to attention at the question, rubbing his claw against Tony’s arm.

 

“He’s not mine, he’s his own person,” he says happily. Nothing on this world makes Tony more happy than Dum-E. Well, something did, but not anymore. 

 

Dum-E is pleased with this answer. He wheels back to the speaker - Barton, Tony sees now - and then back and forth between him and… Natasha Romanov, who looks pissed at him.

 

What?

 

“Where were you?” she says mildly. It gives Tony some threads of satisfaction when her hand snakes behind her hand to stroke Dum-E’s claw; she’s not immune to Dum-E’s charm. He smiles a little, then remembers the situation and lets the smile slip off his face.

 

“Uh, I slept in,” he says, because it’s a half-truth.

 

She arches an eyebrow at him but then looks considerably less-pissed so he hopes it’s okay. 

 

“Are we still going for that coffee?” she asks.

 

Shit. The History. It’s totally slipped his mind. “Yeah! Yeah, we are.” Mr. Rhodes is going to be so angry. The first thing Tony noticed about him was that his eyes were kind; the second that he could definitely pack a punch. He tries his best, really he does. He’s just forgotten. 

 

He needs to stop forgetting things. “Bruce, can I, uh, have your number?” 

 

The moment it comes out of his mouth it sounds wrong. Barton’s eyes literally narrow down to slits and Natasha Romanov (she told him to call her Natasha but he’s not sure so he’s just using her full name whenever he thinks of her) comes closer as if her interest has been perked.

 

Bruce merely looks amused. “Sure thing, Tones.” He turns his back to go to his booth to get his phone. Tones? That’s new. Tony stares at the floor. Should he reiterate with a nickname of his own? Is that too inappropriate, considering he just asked the guy for his number? Why are Barton and Natasha Romanov still here?

 

Dum-E comes over, bumps his head against Tony’s arm in what is probably supposed to be a reassuring manner. Right. He should go to his booth. “C’mon,” he mutters to Dum-E, leading him back over to the booth from where he’s strayed. “You’re doing great, yeah?”

 

Dum-E beeps happily. Tony looks at the people gathering around his booth, gathers his confidence, and starts to talk, introducing Dum-E to them with a rare smile on his face.

 

He spends the remaining two hours just talking to his closest friend, sharing tidbits of information with him and pointing out features of the human world to add to his knowledge bank. When the occasion arises he introduces Dum-E and lets him wow the crowd, then goes back to simply talking with him. Bruce drops by during his break with his number, and Tony only finds it natural that Dum-E and Bruce should get along. They do, and they start to talk, and Tony wanders off. His stomach is twisting painfully, but he ignores the grumbling and is examining the booths when he meets calculating green eyes again.

 

Natasha Romanov tilts her head at him. “You wanna go now?”

 

Tony glances around for possible escape routes but stays put. Courage, Tony! “Uh, yeah, once my shift is over.” 

 

She smiles, turning from dangerously pretty to dangerously beautiful. He finds himself being happy for Barton, that he’s gained the trust of such a girl and knows that she’ll have his back in anything. It’s a nice feeling, he thinks.

 

“I’m looking forward to it.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Natasha’s date, featuring coffee, Napolean, and lots of fluffy armchairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( _ _ ))..zzzZZ
> 
> I keep leaving these little hints that only I can see to hint more about Tony’s past and character huehue also there’s more to the MIT thing than meets the eye I just don’t know how to bring it out so Imma, like, p o s t p o n e :)

In MIT, his roommate once commented that he was tiny, and spent the whole day laughing at his alliterate joke. Tiny Tony. Tony sure feels like he’s living up to that now, keeping his eyes resolutely on his hands as Natasha talks in her smooth, slightly-accented voice to the waitress.

 

Tony doesn’t know if it’s true, but he likes to think that his observation skills are good. He learns through experience; whether or not to turn tail and head back to the library when he sees Howard’s car in the garage, whether or not to change the topic when Matt’s eyes linger too long on his bruises. And now he can tell, through the way Natasha is glancing at the menu, hands folded on the counter, that she doesn’t want to start the conversation.

 

He doesn’t want to either, but, well.

 

“Have you decided on a topic? For Investigation?” Tony knows his People skills are a little rusty, he hasn’t done much socialising since he changed schools. His limited experience from MIT still lingers, though, and he thinks he can keep the conversation rolling back and forth until they need to leave for the Library.

 

“No,” Natasha takes a deep breath, taking in the rich scent of fresh coffee and the special tiramisu exclusive to this café. “I’m interested in Napoleon, though. It’s up to you, really. I just thought it would be a good enough area that’s somewhat unique yet fitting for the topic question.”

 

Tony thinks this over. She’s right. But he has to keep going, dammit. “Well - do you go to the library often?”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “Very rarely. Actually, never. It’s too quiet there.”

 

Personally he rather likes the quiet, but he keeps that to himself. “Nowhere’s ever too quiet. I have this, uh, Corner where I go all the time. We could go there?” 

 

“Sure.” Natasha gives him a warm smile, and he feels blood rushing to his face. Dammit, Tony! She’s going to take it the wrong way again, and he doesn’t know what to do if he gets on the wrong side of her gang.

 

Natasha orders a vanilla latte or something and Tony his usual caramel-chocolate cappuccino. It’s huge (he knows the waitress secretly loves him for coming here so often and always gives him a Large although he orders a Medium) and Nat stares for a moment. “You’re a coffee person, then?” she asks, and he wants to laugh because has nothing ever been more obvious?

 

“Yeah. Tea’s too strong for me.”

 

Natasha looks incredulous. “Coffee is stronger than tea - what do you mean?” She honest-to-God looks so puzzled Tony has to grin a bit. 

 

“The blend of tastes just doesn’t work great for me. I’m Italian, I’ve been drinking coffee all my life. It’s in my roots.” He smiles a little thinking of who he first heard the phrase from. “And, yeah, coffee’s gotten me through truckloads of shit.”

 

He suddenly realises he was just swearing and quickly looks at Natasha’s expression, but it seems rather relaxed and… amused. Can’t he do something without amusing her? Natasha has this soft look when she thinks something is funny and it’s a really good look on her, but Tony’s opinion might be biased because he hates the other setting, which is Pissed Off.

 

“You’re Italian?” she says as they walk through the double doors of the library; the sudden rush of warm air has Tony exhaling in relief. It’s been so cold lately. 

 

“Half. My mum was.”

 

He’s proud of himself, that he can say that without freaking out. He used to do that a lot, mostly in the period just After, but he soon came to realise that wouldn’t be what she wanted, him panicking whenever he remembered her. Basic respect for his own mother.

 

Natasha seems to sense that it’s still not safe grounds, however, and she switches the topic smoothly: “I’m Russian.” Tony is envious for half a second; whenever he does it it’s as obvious as jumping off a speeding train. He knows because sometimes people cringe at how transparent he is.

 

“I didn’t know,” he says, because he really didn’t know. “How does that work? How’d you end up here?” He pauses briefly to wave at Yinsen, who’s beaming at him, behind the counter sorting through files on his computer. 

 

“Long story,” Natasha pulls a face.

 

“Maybe we should do that for our History instead, then,” Tony jokes, and suddenly he thinks this is it. He’s gone a step too far. Natasha is turning and- scoffing at him, that smirk still etched onto her face. 

 

“You wish, Stark,” she teases.

 

Being with Natasha feels natural. Tony’s glad he isn’t horribly awkward as he usually is. It feels fake though, wearing a smile on his face. Natasha is a good person; she doesn’t deserve to be cheated. But what can he do?

 

The stinging throb of pain across his whole body has faded to a dull ache. It must have been his time with Dum-E soothing his nerves, and for that he’s thankful. Natasha’s eyes widen when she turns to see his custom spot. Tony loves it; it’s a triad of small armchairs curved into the angle of the wall, stacked with pillows and a blanket. He looks apologetically at Natasha - she won’t have a blanket but then curses himself in his head. Can’t you just let her have it? You have it all the time.

 

Tony feels a little wave of fatigue wash slowly over him and stumbles into one of the armchairs. Comfy, but not as comfortable as his own, simply because he uses that one so much and these are for his books most of the time. He nods at his usual chair and Natasha sits down, sinking into the plush. He laughs at her face of wonderment. 

 

“I’m always coming here after this,” she declares.

 

Maybe it’s selfish, but Tony feels a pang of distress. This is his corner. If Natasha comes, she brings her gang with her - they’re a package deal. And they all hate him. Imagine if they came here, to his Corner, to his  _ safe place _ . Imagine if he comes here when he sees that fancy car in the garage and they’re all here, talking and laughing and Yinsen loves them too and what is he gonna do?

 

He feels a cold hand on his arm. “Hey, Tony, chill,” Natasha says lightly. “What happened? What’s your trigger?”

 

She says it so directly, Tony thinks. It’s, weirdly enough, helping him calm down, the way she looks at his problem objectively and not recognising that he’s overall flawed. 

 

He doesn’t know how to say it nicely and politely, how to tell her not to bring them here and not to come here all the time because he needs it, but then maybe she needs it more than him. He shrugs. “It was nothing.” I can just find another, uh, hiding place. “You can come here, no problem.”

 

Realisation dawns on Natasha’s features. “Tony, I’m sorry,” she says, and now her fingers and clenching slightly, applying slivers of pressure. “It’s okay. It’s okay to have a safe place. I have one too.” He watches her eyes turn from liquid concern to a more dangerous solid hue. “Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”

 

She’s so direct, he thinks again. “No, it’s not that, I-” he looks at Natasha’s steely green eyes and bites his lip. He can’t lie to this girl. “Uh - okay. Thanks. For that.”

 

`She pats him on the arm, then leans back. “Napoleon, then?”

 

He nods, relieved. “I’ll go get the books.” 

 

Talking to Natasha is really natural. He wishes he has the same gift as her. When talking to him people either look like they wanna stab him, wanna cringe at him or wanna walk away because he’s too insufferable or too arrogant or too selfish. Natasha handles everything so well; she knows what to do when someone’s on the brink of a panic attack, how to smoothly divert the topic, how to say the right things to make people feel better. Not like him - he messes everything up the moment he touches them. If Natasha were the one having a panic attack, he’d probably start panicking himself because he’s useless in situations that don’t involve science.

 

If not for the calming environment of the library and the soothing smell of old, well-worn books, Tony wouldn’t even be able to have these thoughts without doubling over and gasping for breath. He really is useless.

 

The library is like second home to him. He’s never touched the Junior section (he tried! he didn’t understand most of it) and he’s read most of the books in the Engineering and Sciences section, but when he’s bored or just seeking to lose himself in some plot he’ll go for the Science-Fiction. Rarely does he go to the History section unless he wants to cross-reference, but he does not where everything is. It takes him less that two minutes to return with a mountain of thick books. Natasha is curled up, leafing through one of the books he keeps on the coffee table in his Corner at all times, one of the books he likes to keep re-reading over and over again. Upon closer inspection he sees that it’s that book “On Writing” by Stephen King. He isn’t great at writing, but in his opinion it’s the best book ever by the author because it’s filled with delicious anecdotes and he simply likes to read about others’ stories. In the book Stephen King mentions things like how the writer and the reader have a special connection, a special mind-meld through which they transmit messages and special imagery, and Tony thinks that’s the truest word he’s ever known. 

 

Looking up and seeing the towering amount of books, Natasha immediately makes her way over to help. Tony scowls in his head, he’s not that small, they just don’t believe it. 

 

“That’s impressive,” Natasha murmurs, laying the books down on the table.

 

“I spend a lot of time here,” Tony says. Duh.

 

Natasha smiles. “Can tell.”

 

They get to work, Natasha typing on her tablet and Tony sifting through his sources. He’s familiar with cross-referencing so he does that portion, and when the sky starts to darken he thinks their progress is actually commendable. 

 

Natasha actually beams at him as they return the books to their rightufl places. “Good work,” she says, “do you have to go?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” If he can go, he will go. Mr. Rhodes hopefully won’t be too angry. He still doesn’t know the extent of what he can and cannot do.

 

Then Natasha looks at him in all seriousness and says, “Why do people talk so much about you, Tony?”

 

Answers, artificial, truthful and sarcastic whizz through his mind. Because my father is Howard Stark. Because I’m a terrible person and they all hate me. Because I don’t talk much and everyone assumes I don’t want to. Because I’m terrified that I say the wrong thing so I let others say it for me.

 

“Don’t really know,” he says. 

 

Natasha nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Good evening.”

 

“Good evening,” he says, then takes his bag and his empty coffee cup and flees. When he looks back before exiting the library’s double doors, Natasha is looking into space, fingers still hovering over her keyboard, head tilted as she thinks.

 

All good things, Tony hopes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo! I’m sorry if I got your hopes up with the daily updates the other time, but here it is :) I probably won’t update much during the weekends, sorry!
> 
> 1) Who do you guys usually ship Tony with? My idea for this fic isn’t slash but just wondering  
> 2) Do you guys prefer my current updating (random, erratic) style with about 2K words per chapter or a longer chapter once a week?
> 
> Love y’all :D

It takes a long, long time for Tony to figure out which street Pepper and Mr. Rhodes live at. He retraces his footsteps from the bus stop where he took the bus, but he has no idea how many houses he ran past in the afternoon, or what number they live in. He can feel his stomach turn over, a warning of imminent panic. He knows he should call Pepper but he can’t really - she’s probably busy. To be very honest, he would have gone straight back to the mansion if not for the sheer impoliteness of leaving before even a reminder. Maybe they’ve forgotten him, but it’s the least he can do.

 

He’s pacing nervously along the sidewalk, fingers freezing in his pockets, trying to screw up enough courage to call Pepper. She could be busy, he thinks again. It takes another ten minutes of useless pacing before he fumbles in his jacket pocket for his phone. His fingers are numb as he swipes the screen to see that it’s almost 8 and Pepper has called him twice-

 

His breath slams into his throat and he spends another period of time trying to control his breathing before lifting the phone with shaky hands.

 

Will she be angry? Tony’s heartbeat shudders as he hears the click to represent the line connecting.

 

“Tony? Thank God, where are you?”

 

“Uh. 5th,” he says, casting a wild look around him.

 

“5th what?” Pepper doesn’t seem angry. Tony lets himself calm down a little, but in his subconscious his skin is prickling at the thought of explaining to her why he was so late. He told Mr. Rhodes that the convention ended at 4, and he wasn’t lying, but he’d forgotten about the thing with Natasha.

 

“Uh, at your street.”

 

Pepper chuckles. “Alright. I’ll come out to get you. We live at the 29th,” and then she’s gone.

 

Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks along the street, counting mentally in his head. Two minutes and twenty-four seconds later Pepper walks up the street. He has a brief moment to consider running as shock filters onto her expression.

 

“Tony? Is that yours?”

 

Tony looks down at himself. His jacket and his sweatshirt are smudged with flecks of snow. His eyelashes are stinging from the cold and his cheeks and fingers are numb. “Uh,” he says.

 

“The sweatshirt,” Pepper says, coming closer. She’s brought a large fur coat that looks huge - probably Mr. Rhodes’, and Tony is glad as she wraps it around him. He realises he’s shivering lightly. “You went to MIT? Tony?”

 

He nods. When she zips up the coat the collar goes halfway up his face, and he tucks his nose into the warm fabric. Pepper looks at him for a moment, expression conflicted, before she huffs out a breath and a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. He follows her further down the street, awkwardly staring at the snow collecting on the ground.

 

“Tell me whenever you want me to stop, okay?” Pepper says, fingers curling gently around Tony’s upper arm. The sleeves of the coat are hanging off Tony’s hands so he fists his hands up and shoves them where they can’t be seen. “Do... you want to talk about it?”

 

Talk about what? Tony looks inquisitively at Pepper, then looks back down towards the ground. “Okay?”

 

“Did you see? Whoever it was?”

 

Tony’s completely forgotten about how Pepper was the one who found him in the Cabinet. Once again, he finds himself wishing that never happened. Some things are just better off not happening.

 

“No,” he says, lying through his teeth and feeling his heart curl up guiltily.

 

“What happened? What did they do?”

 

“Uh.” Tony runs through the cause and effects in his mind. He could tell Pepper the vague outline, give her the rest to figure out. He could just tell her what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. He constructs a lie in his head, feeling all the pieces slot together in his mind. Why wasn’t Howard at home? He can’t say it was anything work-related because Pepper would know, she’s his secretary, assistant, whatever. Howard went out to clear his mind of the alcohol from last night. Why were there so many wounds? There was more than one of them, but they didn’t drive because Tony didn’t hear them coming up. Stark mansion is roughly situated further away from the main road to allow for some privacy, and Howard’s very strong words in one press conference chased the crowds of reporters away from their front door very long ago, so the mansion is what you can call isolated. Tony hates it, but it helps his case here; any vehicle not belonging to Howard driving up to the mansion would look somewhat suspicious.

 

All this flies through his brain in a nanosecond, and it takes less than two more seconds for him to build the story up. Times like these, Tony is eternally grateful for his chattering, fast-paced subconscious.

 

“I don’t know much - I was going up the stairs,” he manages a half-hearted shrug as Pepper steers him into the driveway by the gentle hand on his arm, “someone, uh, pulled me down I think, then I passed out and next thing I was in the Cabinet.”

 

“Did it hurt?”

 

No shit, he thinks, kicking idly at the floor as they near the front door. Pepper may tolerate him, but Mr. Rhodes might be angry. He swallows his trepidation and watch Pepper as she raps on the door.

 

“Yeah, but I think it would have hurt less if they did it when I was awake,” he offers. Pepper thinks this over and nods, just as the door opens.

 

“Oh, Tony,” Mr. Rhodes says, and Tony has to stiffen his knees so as not to back away.

 

Pepper nudges him and he steps slowly into the house. Inside is a pleasant contrast from the bitter cold, the ceiling lights casting an warm amber glow around the room and immediately raising the temperature. Tony hums in quiet appreciation, rubbing his palms together. Mr. Rhodes gets a blanket from who-knows-where and piles it on the couch as some sort of blanket fort. It looks so comfortable Tony wants to jump in it, but he bites his tongue and hangs back, glancing between the two adults in the room uncertainly. Are they going to watch movies? Maybe he should leave. He’s about to clear his throat and head for the door when Mr. Rhodes waves him over.

 

“Tony, come over,” he says.

 

It’s really as comfortable as it looked. Tony fights to sit up straight, folding his hands in his lap now that they’re no longer freezing. Pepper sits down beside him so he’s between both of them, wedged into their sides.

 

“What do you want to do, Tony?” she asks.

 

What do I want to do? Tony tries to do an analysis in his head, what would Pepper and Mr. Rhodes want him to do? He knows he should stop calling Mr. Rhodes Mr. Rhodes (what was that, brain?) but he doesn’t want to call him Jim or James because that reminds him of Bucky and he - doesn’t - want to get reminded of that weak as he is.

 

“Can we watch a movie?” Pepper says, not really waiting for Tony to answer as she turns to Mr. Rhodes.

 

“ ‘S long as it’s not Disney live-action,” Mr. Rhodes says.

 

They end up putting on James Bond, something Matt has never watched with Tony before. Watching movies is a nice way to relax in his opinion, but only with people who are comfortable with him, he supposes. Pepper and Mr. Rhodes may act like it, but he knows they’re only sticking with him long enough for Howard to pay them good money.

 

It feels so legit, though, leaning against two of them, breathing the same air. Tony spends the majority of the movie trying to come up with a nickname for Mr. Rhodes, at least in his head, not out loud. He watches the blood and gore somewhat impassively, even when Pepper glances at him like he’s made of glass and is going to shatter at everything. Rhodey bats her concerned expression away occasionally; Tony remembers that Rhodey is military and should be used to violence by now. It’s a comfort that Rhodey doesn’t think he’s that fragile.

 

They don’t talk much, and even if he hates to admit it, Tony is enjoying himself. A lot. It feels amazing. A little.

 

Tony must’ve fallen asleep, because when he wakes up the room is dark. For a moment he has to mentally claw his way out of the panic, because it has too much in common with that tiny cramped Cabinet, but he feels warmth against his skin and the quiet rise and fall of breathing beneath his head. Tony sits up slowly; the blankets have been tangled around his legs and middle and he nearly falls over as he wrestles himself to a standing position, careful to cover whoever is sleeping (Rhodey) with the blanket afterward. He isn’t entirely sure why he squirmed out of the blanket fort, or where Pepper is. The answer to his first question is abruptly answered when his stomach twists in on itself so hard he gasps, doubling over; he trips over the step leading to the kitchen and barely manages to catch himself against the wall. He bites away the whimpers that automatically bubble up to the surface. Throat burning, he sits down and wraps his arms around himself in the kitchen.

 

He hasn’t eaten for one whole day, he remembers. Make that two, he didn’t eat lunch on Friday either. Because he’d been sleeping in the lab. Beautiful planning ahead, Tony. His stomach murmurs in protest as he wills the pain to go away.

 

Tony battles with himself for two more minutes before he gives in and heads for the fridge, footsteps light on the cold floor. The light from the refrigerator is like a beacon of hope as Tony wrenches the door open, wincing at the sound it makes. A quick glance to the living room tells him he hasn’t woken Rhodey up.

 

Thief, the always-angry part of his brain supplies bitterly.

 

Tony shakes his head at himself. I’m not a thief, he thinks. It sounds so unconvincing when he says it in his head. I’m not a thief, again, louder this time, and in the giant empty space of his shockingly blank mind the words echo as if mocking him. Tony shakes his head and scans the fridge; he can’t help but sneak tiny glances over his shoulder at where Rhodey is still asleep on the couch.

 

Bread. Thank God for bread, Tony thinks, taking the whole loaf out. He has no trouble locating the toaster and even dares to switch one of the lesser lights on. It’s hard to notice anything is missing when you’re looking at the whole loaf, and it’s simple food, but filling.

 

Okay, well, less filling than he’d prefer, but he can work with what he has, right?

 

It might be an overstatement (if that’s a thing), but Tony really thinks he’s starving.

 

When the toaster dings the sound is an explosion of noise in the pensive silence and Tony flinches, actually running to stand beside the door, out of sight in case Rhodey looks up. Nothing happens, and Tony scuttles back to the toaster, lifting his prize out of it. Another pang of hunger that stabs into his gut before he bows his head and wolfs the bread down. It tastes better than it usually does but Tony is still starving, so he drops another slice into the toaster. Last slice, Tony, he warns himself, fingers tapping nervously on the counter as he waits. The silence is unnerving.

 

“Tony?”

 

Oh God. Tony fumbles; his hand seizes up and he jerks, dropping the loaf on the counter - not the floor, thankfully. He backs away until he’s pressed against the wall, an uncomfortable reminder of the barely healed whip marks on his back. Rhodey is standing in the kitchen doorway, his look of shock illuminated by the lamp Tony wisely switched on just now.

 

Tony can’t remember the last time he had a good day. Maybe the convention, and maybe History with Natasha after that, but no, everything just gets worse and worse. He’s never hated himself more in this moment - okay, he has, but this comes close. Strangers showing kindness to him, taking him into their houses for God’s sake - and here he is, thieving from their fridge while they sleep.

 

It just keeps getting worse and worse.

 

Rhodey hesitantly comes closer, as if he can’t believe his eyes. Tony keeps his eyes trained on the floor, staring at the junction where two tiles meet. He has no words to say for himself. He just hopes Rhodey will fill the silence.

 

“Tony? What is it?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts before he can help himself, fumbling against the wall, fingers dragging across the surface like they don’t know where to place themselves. “I’m sorry, please.”

 

“Tony, I- Were you hungry?”

 

The toaster dings cheerfully and Tony watches, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach, as the tip of a toasted broad pops out, the picture so comical compared to the situation he wants to laugh.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tries again.

 

When Rhodey doesn’t react he sinks down slowly to sit on the floor. He’s learnt the hard way that he doesn’t want to be standing when the first blow hits - it’s a longer way to fall that way.

 

“Please don’t hurt me,” he says. He won’t be able to keep the quiver out of his voice for much longer. His hands and heart are shaking uncontrollably. He knows he deserves it but he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to have to patch himself up again just when they’ve been so good to him, but then again he brought it on himself, didn’t he?

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says, and there it is, that note of disappointment Tony wishes he never has to hear again. Of course, it’s a futile dream. Hell, even Matt’s used it on him before. He trembles, lowers his gaze back downwards.

 

“I’m sorry. Please, just not my ribs. Or my shoulder. It hurts, a lot.” It just sounds horrible, coming out of his mouth. Like he has the authority to even try and negotiate. Tony cringes at himself. Another brief, heavy silence, and he can’t take it anymore. “Not my shoulder. Just not my shoulder; it’s the worst. Please?”

 

Rhodey still doesn’t say anything, staring down at him with a disquieting lack of movement. Tony’s full-on shaking now, braced against the wall uncomfortably, hands hiding back his back. He fights the panic back because he owes Rhodey that much, to talk to him like a normal person without erupting into hitching sobs and broken whimpers like he normally does to Howard. He hopes he doesn’t look too pathetic but seriously knows otherwise. “Just - just let me eat? Afterward?” It’s a last-ditch effort, he knows he really shouldn’t but he’s seriously so, so hungry.

 

“Tony, I’m not going to hurt you,” Rhodey says after a while, going down on one knee to meet Tony’s eyes. But Tony sees the proof he’s been subconsciously searching for - thinly veiled dark fury pooling in Rhodey’s normally-kind eyes.

 

Shit, he really is angry.

 

You selfish prick, his brain hisses at him. Won’t you even let him beat you up for being nothing but a snivelling, thieving burden?

 

He barely has time to suck in a hasty breath before the panic hits, blurring his vision and clouding his mind. Air is now precious, each intake to his burning lungs a brief reprieve before the darkness of fear closes in on him again. His hands fly up to his face automatically where they start shaking, as if they’re of any use; just trying their best to shield his face because it’s what the people at school see and it’s what the people at school ask questions about but he doesn’t want them to because he doesn’t like lying and the last time he lied he got sent to the Principal’s Office and Howard-

 

Miraculously the fog clears a little and Tony gasps as he slams back into reality, almost jumping out of his skin at the skin-on-skin contact. Rhodey has taken his hand and placed it on his chest so he can feel the older man’s heartbeat. He doesn’t know where to put his fingers, and his (weak, useless) arm is getting tired from holding it up for God knows how long. Once again, he looks to the floor. The warm, steady and somewhat distant thud of a strong heart beating is enough to lull him from the throes of panic.

 

A strong heart not like yours, the angry guy murmurs.

 

Tony doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore. His stomach grunts loudly as if to remind everyone of its presence, and he flushes, looks away to stare at the crack between one of the cupboard doors. He’s hovering, on the edge of the deep, dark pit, and at the moment all that’s keeping him above is Rhodey’s skin on his. It feels good.

 

“Tony, you can eat anything you want,” Rhodey’s voice, mercifully low and quiet, reaches his ears. “You’re free to eat anything you want here. It’s my home, and I give you permission. OK?”

 

How nice it must be to have a home, Tony thinks dopily as Rhodey reaches over to the toaster, hand still remaining on Tony’s arm, and hands him the toast, which Tony inhales before he can change his mind. Rhodey chuckles a little and hoists him up by the arm, firmly but not unkindly.

 

“I’m really sorry,” Tony tells him when he regains his voice.

 

Rhodey shakes his head but says nothing. He nods at the dining table and Tony sits down, lacing his fingers in his lap because he never knows where to place his hands. He watches nervously as Rhodey crosses the kitchen and grabs a packet of what looks like instant noodles.

 

“This good?” he says, turning around to wave it at Tony. He nods, not really trusting himself to speak.

 

The low crackle of a pot on the stove makes Tony drift off again, and when he wakes up Rhodey is brandishing a bowl of cooked noodles in front of him, complete with a mug of chocolate and one morose-looking sunny-side-up. Rhodey chuckles at him; he can tell the egg looks sad. “Not my forte. Hope it’s enough,” he says.

 

Enough? How is this guy even real? Tony stares at the dining table willing his goofy smile to go away. “Thank you,” he says, trying to filter as much sincerity as possible into his tone. He really, really wants to thank Rhodey.

 

Rhodey nods, cuffs the side of his head lightly. “Eat up,” he says. “You’re tiny enough.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have an allergic reaction to something so i have like, hives all over my arms and legs and my butt :( but it’s okay haha have fun reading

  
“This isn’t normal,” Jim says over breakfast.    
  


“What isn’t?” Pepper asks. They’re on speaking terms now that they’ve recognised a common enemy and are working together to protect the most-adorable-human-they’ve-seen against it. Jim told her about yesterday night (or early today morning), and while yes, she doesn’t find it normal, it doesn’t seem out of the ordinary for a poor kid who’s been kidnapped twice more than others at half their age. Doesn’t help that he got locked in a cabinet for what seems like over eight hours.

 

“I’ve seen my fair share of panic attacks,” Jim says offhandedly, and Pepper knows he’s  _ had _ his fair share of panic attacks, “and this isn’t- standard. How many times has he been kidnapped now?”

 

“Four, including the latest, but he’s never been that extensively hurt,” Pepper says, hating that she knew this information and hadn’t acted on it. “They just keep him in a room or something. Howard paid the first time, I think he was six, then didn’t. Second time the kidnappers gave up and left Tony somewhere; he miraculously made it home.”

 

“Age?” Jim says, nonchalantly flipping over his bacon as if he isn’t listening to some morbid story of childhood horror. Sometimes Pepper almost wishes she were in the Army so she can have a higher tolerance of - well, of everything. 

 

“...Eleven, I think,” she says, looking at her food because she doesn’t want to witness the flash of rage on Jim’s face.

 

“How much did they ask for?”

 

“I don’t know!” Pepper looks up to meet Jim’s frighteningly dark gaze. Jim knows that he can be scary when he wants to, but in her opinion this is the worst kind of rage, when he’s not even trying to suppress how angry he feels. Jim isn’t exactly conservative, but he’s quite uncomfortable with letting people read him. Pepper can, but she has to make an effort and look closer, even after she’s known him for a long three years. After a long time nobody speaks, so she continues.

 

“Third time I think his mother went to get him,” Pepper suddenly finds it hard to swallow. “And she- uh. Died.”

 

Jim’s eyebrows shoot up immediately. “Did Tony see?”

 

“Yes,” Pepper says, insides squirming at sharing this media secret with JIm. She knows she can trust him, but she can’t help but feel like she’s betraying something.

 

Jim bites at the inside of his cheek, a subtle habit. “Does he have… issues? Because of it?” Then, before Pepper can answer, “Is there anyone who has the means and opportunity to be hurting Tony for a relatively long term period of time?”

 

Pepper blinks at the sudden technicality in his speech. “No? I mean, Howard would know?”

 

“Unless he’s been kidnapped for a long, long period of time. Over three months?” Jim asks.

 

It really sounds like he’s grabbing at straws. Pepper doesn’t know what he’s trying to convince himself. “No! Not even our PR could keep that from the media. And I doubt Howard would be quiet about it.”

 

“I doubt indeed,” Jim murmurs, and behind him there’s a tiny flick of movement that Pepper immediately latches onto.

 

“Tony?” she calls, and he emerges from behind the door, eyes wide and frightened, shoulders hunched and stomach sucked in, posture coiled tight like a spring. He’s clutching at the hem of the overly large t-shirt he slept in, twisting the loose fabric over and over in his tightly-fisted hands. His hair is sticking up all over and the sleeves of Jim’s shirt go all the way to his elbows. 

 

Pepper can’t help it. She smiles so wide as she looks back down at her food, cooing in her head.

 

“Are you hungry? We made breakfast,” Jim says; she can detect the trace of fondness in his tone. He isn’t immune either. She kicks him lightly under the table and he laughs.

 

Tony keeps quiet, his hands continuing to twist in the shirt. He shifts his weight on both his feet and starts to tap his foot against the floor. “I don’t know,” he says eventually.

 

“Do you want the food?” Jim asks.

 

More hesitant silence, and then Tony manages an abrupt “No”. It sounds so forced everyone cringes, even Tony himself. His chin jerks downwards and he stares at the floor, shifting uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he adds.

 

Jim stands up and Tony stumbles backwards, his back hitting the wall. He lets out a hiss of pain and scrabbles at the wall as if looking for a handhold, but he stays silent and keeps his trembling gaze on the floor. Jim walks around the table and goes into the kitchen. Pepper can tell from the way his shoulders are set back that he is angry. As he passes her he leans down to whisper “trust me” in her ear, then he’s gone. Pepper frowns, but she trusts Jim.

 

She nods at one of the empty chairs invitingly. 

 

He doesn’t react or seem to catch the hint, but she waits and after a minute he walks over noiselessly and drops into the chair, huge soulful eyes searching Pepper’s face for any trace of disappointment. When he finds nothing he scoots the chair closer to the table and sits very straight, resting his hands on the table then thinking better of it and hiding them under the table. When Pepper doesn’t say anything he puts them back on the table.

 

Jim comes back with bacon and eggs and places the plate on the table in front of Tony. “Thank you,” Tony murmurs. Jim pats him gently on the head.

 

“Remember what I said?” he says, letting his hand drop onto Tony’s shoulder and keeping it there. “Last night?”

 

“I can eat anything I want in your home,” Tony recites, eyes dancing all over the place. 

 

“Yep,” Jim says. “Also, you don’t have to worry. We called your dad.”

 

Awkward silence falls over the table suddenly. Pepper shifts in discomfort at Jim’s lie. She isn’t even sure what sparked the tension; there have been longer silences more comfortable, but Tony is fidgeting so much she’s sure he thinks he caused it. Before she can say anything Tony pushes the chair away from the table. “Sorry,” he blurts out again before fleeing.

 

Jim cocks an eyebrow at her and she sighs.

 

“Okay, fine. Not normal.”

  
  
  
  


Not normal?

 

You know what that means, that tiny part of his brain hisses. You know what that means.

 

Tony gasps, pulling air desperately to the lungs. His stupid broken heart is pounding, terror flooding through his veins. They called Howard. Howard is  _ on his way.  _ His helpful brain supplies an image of Howard, sitting at the wheel of his fancy car, eyes burning with hatred like Tony has seen so many times before.

 

He can’t do this. The fight-or-flight response has been activated.

 

And Tony wouldn’t  _ dream _ of fighting Howard.

 

He’s running, twisting through the dark corridors and clipping his shoulder painfully whenever he turns a corner. He trips more than once, the only thing he can hear and feel are his feet running. Tony needs to get away, get away - it isn’t even that he’s scared of the pain, the wounds have faded and are relatively okay now - the thing is that he’s let someone know, he’s been found by someone and Howard will have to cover his tracks and Howard will be so - so disappointed -

 

Tony turns a corner, sees a toilet and hurls himself inside, stomach turning. He feels so bad he actually braces himself over the toilet bowl but he doesn’t throw up, instead his legs begin to shake and he barely catches himself before he crumples on the floor.

 

“Tony!” Someone screams and he jerks on the floor, shaking and muttering under his breath like some pathetic invalid. Someone is chasing him through the house.

 

“He’s gonna hurt me he’s gonna hurt me so bad he does it all the time he’s gonna hurt me so bad” he finds himself murmuring deliriously and quickly clamps his hands over his mouth, fingers trembling. “Please please please” is muffled but it’s still there and Tony winces, struggles to his feet and stumbles out of the toilet. He hits the wall about four more times before he finds a window and looks out. The movement causes his head to spin again and he nearly throws up again, a pang of pain hitting his temples and grinding loudly in his head.

 

“Tony!” Tony whips his head around and he sees Pepper standing in the corridor, walking slowly towards him. He immediately  _ panics,  _ no other word for it, looking desperately around him but there’s no way out, and Tony simply does the only thing that comes into his mind; he jumps.

 

Pepper screams behind him as he hits the ground hard, on his left side, and he’s just in time to clamp a shaking hand over his mouth as a ragged scream tears itself from his aching throat. His shoulder pulses white-hot currents of pain and he spends precious seconds writhing on the snow, begging for it to be over, he’s saying something but he can’t hear, his silent scream frozen in time as the pain rages on. Someone is still screaming, and he dimly looks up to see a snowflake falling gently on his skin. He has enough time to feel the icy-cold water run down the side of his wet face (oh, he’s crying! Beautiful) before darkness. 

  
  
  
  


“What the fuck, Virginia?” 

 

“I didn’t know he’d react like that,” Pepper mutters, wiping absently at her face. Jim’s features twist unpleasantly but he doesn’t say anything, single-mindedly focused on the task of wiping the blood off Tony’s bruised face. He whimpers a little in his sleep as Jim turns him over to have a look at his shoulder.

 

“He felt cornered,” Jim says after a while, reaching over to hand her a tissue, which she accepts, glad that he doesn’t blame her. God knows she blames herself enough already. “All he could see was you at the end of the corridor. And now,” he says, lowering Tony’s slack head onto his lap tenderly, “we know.” He looks up to meet Pepper’s gaze. “That Howard abuses his kid.”

 

Pepper shifts uncomfortably. She knows she should be angry, should feel something negative about Howard but she doesn’t, she just doesn’t think it’s possible. It doesn’t click in her mind. She fidgets a little more as Jim scoots closer to her, supporting Tony’s weight. 

 

“We can’t do anything about it, though,” she says as quietly as possible.

 

Jim scowls. “We’ll get proof. Right now I think we should cut him some slack,” he says. Tony murmurs, turns over, and Pepper can still see traces of tear tracks on his face. 

 

“Does anyone else know?” he asks.

 

“We might have to ask his schoolmates,” Pepper says, thinking about the two schoolmates’ contacts which she saw in Tony’s phone.

 

“Then ask his schoolmates we shall,” Jim says, and when he turns Pepper sees the same determined set of his shoulders she saw when he told her he wanted to join the Army.

 

But well, she thinks she’s with him on this one.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wathced endgamw

It has stopped snowing by the time Tony wakes up, and the patches of white on the trampled grass are pulling away from each other gradually. He spends some time staring out the window, eyelids drooping and thoughts running circles in his head, before shaking himself awake and slumping back against the pillows. It feels good. The shirt is thin and he can feel the calm coolness through the fabric. Tony’s very tired, even though he’s just slept a lot.

 

The sky is kind of darkening, colour slowly fading from the lifeless sky like water sliding down plastic. Tony’s miffed to find that his socked feet don’t touch the floor, even when he positions his knees on the edge of the bed. He wonders briefly how long he’s slept and why on earth is he sleeping here?

 

“Tony?” someone asks hesitantly from the door and he reflexively pulls the blanket (oh so fluffy) to his chest before shoving it away from himself quickly. It’s not even his, dammit!

 

He keeps his eyes down as the bed dips gently under Rhodey’s weight. “Feelin’ better now?” Rhodey asks and Tony nods mutely, entangling his fingers in the blanket, grabbing fistfuls of it to calm himself. “Alright Tony,” Rhodey says, and doesn't say anything else. Tony waits.

 

“You hungry?”

 

Tony nods again. He thinks it’s better not to lie to them. He doesn’t know what’s happened, because his mind is a little fuzzy and he doesn’t know why Rhodey’s eyebrows are slightly bunched together.

 

Rhodey sits down beside him and Tony’s insides start to squirm unpleasantly. “Do you want to go home?”

 

Tony considers the question. He’s tired, and it’s a Sunday. Tony likes Sundays - Howard’s not at home and the household staff are all out because they only come on Saturdays. The library is closed on Sunday because everyone is out doing who-knows-what with people who actually care about them, even Yinsen, who has Sundays off. Yinsen trusts Tony with the spare key to the library, so sometimes Tony sneaks in when no one is looking, turns on the table lamp in his Reading Corner and reads up on the morbid things he’d never be caught dead looking through - things like Sherlock Holmes and twisted fairytales which are way too immature for his age. He doesn’t touch fantasy in broad daylight because people can see, and the sliver of guilt that creeps up the sides of his heart can be quickly trampled by secrecy.

 

“Okay,” he says. He can go to the library after he goes home. At any rate, he doesn’t want Pepper and Rhodey to be involved, they’ve spent so much time on him already.

 

Rhodey purses his lips. “Do you want to talk?” And then when Tony looks at him quizzically, “about your father?”

 

About my father? Tony mentally pulls the flood gates in his mind open and suppresses his wince as his thoughts flow in. Could Rhodey be asking for money? Did Howard promise them money if they got him out of his way for a while? Does Rhodey know? Does Rhodey know and want to come to an agreement so they can pretend it doesn’t happen? Or does Rhodey know and want to help?

 

Does Rhodey know? “About what?” he asks, heart clenching around itself in trepidation. Rhodey doesn’t say anything, just circles his arm around Tony’s shoulders and lets his hand rest on Tony’s bad shoulder. Tony braces himself for a squeeze but it doesn’t happen.

 

“Okay, I’m gonna just talk, okay? And you can nod your head yes or shake your head no.” Tony thinks that over. He hopes he won’t have to lie, because yes-or-no means there isn’t such a thing as a half-truth, but because Rhodey isn’t exactly asking for permission he nods his head, yes.

 

“So we were eating breakfast. I mentioned that we called your father, and you were scared, weren’t you?”

 

Tony nods, only because there’s nothing else he can say. He remembers how he reacted, shoving his chair away and doing what could be very appropriately called fleeing for his life. He recalls that Rhodey is military and with the rate of hyperventilation there can be no other explanation. He recognises that it’s a sign of weakness, but a blatant lie would be an even larger pithole to fall himself into.

 

“Then you ran, and that was because you thought he was coming over.”

 

Did I think he was coming over? Tony remembers the mental image of Howard, sitting at the wheel of his car with his face black, eyes smoldering and he has to fight down the panic again. So he nods.

 

“Does Howard let you eat?” Rhodey asks suddenly. In Tony’s mind it’s like a train just swerved to change tracks, having changed its mind at the last moment. He shakes his head to chase off the lingering terror.

 

“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly. Howard doesn’t hate him to the point that he’d let him starve. But maybe he does. He just needs someone to take over the company, right? Tony hesitates. “I mean, yeah, he lets me eat. Why wouldn’t he?” He’s starting to see that maybe Rhodey does know. He doesn’t know how to react - should he be grateful or terrified? Does Rhodey look like the kind of person that would help him, or - or make it worse?

 

Make it worse? How could it possibly be worse? 

 

Rhodey’s arm tightens around him and Tony realises its fallen around his waist and not on his shoulders anymore.

 

“Do you know?” he asks quietly, because even if Rhodey punishes him for not following the rules of the yes-and-no game he needs to know so he knows what to say to Howard when he next sees him. Oh God. When he next sees Howard.

 

Rhodey must see that he’s wavering on the thin line between reality and his panic-infused place of nightmares, because he wraps his long fingers around Tony’s wrist and taps a comforting rhythm against his pulse point.

 

“Yeah man, Tony. We know,” he says.

 

To his credit, Tony doesn’t freak out. Instead, he bites on the inside of his cheek and keeps quiet, trying to digest this information. The way Rhodey says it it’s like nobody was supposed to know, so he goes on to his next question because it’s been punishment-free so far:

 

“Did Howard promise to pay you?” because if he did it’ll probably be Tony ending up to gather his savings and do something about it because in the end Howard paid them to keep an eye on  _ him _ , didn’t he? And he’s the root of the problem, is he not?

 

“No, why?” Rhodey says, forehead creasing in thought. Then - “Pep didn’t mean to find you, y’know? She didn’t mean to, and when she saw you she said her heart broke ‘cause you’re a-” Here it looks like he’s making a conscious effort not to swear - “you’re a kid, Tony! You’re  _ fifteen _ . You gotta tell me it hurts when he hits you, right?”

 

Tony nods his head slowly. Of course it hurts.

 

“And you don’t deserve that, Tony. People don’t- people aren’t supposed to feel pain like that. Particularly from their - their fathers. And it’s not just you, okay? Nobody deserves that.”

 

You don’t know, Tony thinks. He doesn’t do anything on the outside, merely lowers his head and stares at the floor because he has not a shred of idea on how to react to this mini-speech. 

 

What are you going to do about it? he wants to ask Rhodey. What are you doing now that you know? Will you sell the story? Will you help me? 

 

He doesn’t say anything, because it’d sound too pathetic and Tony doesn’t even know, man. He doesn’t want Rhodey to get disgusted at him.

 

Rhodey sighs, then pats Tony once more on the side of his head and stands up to leave. “Pep’ll take you home, ’kay?”

 

“Okay.” 

 

Rhodey closes the door quietly behind him. 

  
  
  
  


Pepper does take him home. They stop at the (locked) front gates for a moment, staring morosely and awkwardly at the mansion.

 

“Does he hurt you often?” Pepper asks.

 

Tony looks down instinctively and wraps his arms around himself. “No,” he says. It’s the truth. Howard rarely hits him more than once a week, and mostly not too violently. This few times, it’s only been because of his failure and getting kidnapped. Tony tries, really. It’s been years, even, after his last kidnapping. He’s been working hard, being careful.

 

“You’ll call,” Pepper says, suddenly fierce. She bends down slightly to meet his eyes and grips his shoulders, thankfully not too hard. “You’ll call, Tony. If he hits you again. Do you hear?”

 

What can he do but nod? There’s that look in her eyes he saw in Rhodey, that cross between fire and steel. He’s finding it hard to swallow, because he doesn’t know what he did. 

 

Pepper bites on her lip, features twitching like she wants to say something more. Tony has to physically restrain himself from backing away.

 

“Tony, we’ll help,” she finally says, and suddenly some feeling very unfamiliar to himself crashes down on Tony. He thinks it’s relief, gratitude maybe, but he doesn’t know what to say so he stares at her, pressure building behind his eyes.

 

“How?” he says finally.

 

Pepper closes her eyes and shakes her head like she’s afraid of looking at him while she’s talking. “We need to find proof, and we don’t know yet,” she says. “Jim didn’t want to tell you because he didn’t want to get your hopes up, and then screw it up and not be able to help you in the end because Howard sued us or something.” She goes quiet, pretty blue eyes fluttering open, like she hasn’t really considered Howard sueing them before she has had to say it out loud. “Uh, I’ll still be working this job, just to, well, you know. Keep an eye on you. Because we care, Tony, really we do.”

 

Tony nods mutely. They care. He smiles, but then suddenly feels wetness slide down his face and he freezes, trying to think of how she’ll react. She smiles back at him, her own eyes suspiciously reddened, and reaches out to smudge her finger against his cheek, wiping his tear away.

 

“Stay safe,” she says, then she opens her arms and he stares in confusion because she wants to  _ hug him _ . Touch is a strange concept to him, something he doesn’t experience often yet weirdly enjoys, and he steps forward slowly, testing the waters. She wraps her arms around him and he lets his head fall forward into the crook between her shoulder and her neck, breathing quietly against her skin.

 

“Thank you.” His voice is wobbly but neither of them comment.

  
  
  
  


It’s nearing eight when Tony, curled up on his bed doing his Language reading, receives a text. The burst of noise from his phone in the tense silence of waiting for Howard makes Tony jump and he tumbles off the bed in his haste to check.

 

**Bruce** : Tony?

 

**Bruce:** Can we do science

**Bruce** : or Whatever

 

Tony frowns in confusion. 

 

**Tony** : what?

 

**Bruce:** Just wanna take my mind off something, I guess.

**Bruce:** I just got a new idea.

 

Tony sighs, falls back into his chair and listens as Bruce starts up a happy ramble. He doesn’t really know how to react to Bruce being so enthusiastic out of the middle of nowhere.

 

**Tony:** what’s going on?

 

There’s a momentary silence and Tony wonders if he’s gone too far before there’s a reply.

 

**Bruce** : Dumb stuff. I thought we were sleeping over at Nat’s so I packed my bag. Lmao.

**Bruce:** And quarrelled with my dad.

**Bruce:** But now I have to go home. Because we’re not sleeping over. Because Steve, Buck and Sam are celebrating their win. With drinks. 

**Bruce** : And I don’t want to go but I don’t want to go home either.

**Bruce** : Idk.

 

**Tony:** where are you?

 

**Bruce** : School haha.

**Bruce:** I was in the Lab for a while.

 

**Tony** : do you want to sleepover somewhere else?

 

**Bruce:** Sorry, what?

 

Tony sighs, fingers tapping nervously against the side of his phone. He shouldn’t be doing this, but he knows Bruce is a good person and he doesn’t want Bruce to have to go home to his father after a disagreement, because fathers sometimes just aren’t the best. And anyway, he doesn’t want to face Howard.

  
**Tony:** go to the library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again so sorry for the long break  
> i’ve recovered now, thank you all! and also, uh,, i will be posting more frequently to make up for this  
> love y’all
> 
> btw you guys can check out my bookmarks (i have 3) and it takes a high standard to be one of my bookmarks those are all my favourites so check them out :)
> 
> i also want to recommend milk and honey by ims(svire) which is a great buckytony high school au story :D i actually have another plotbunny in mind for another story which is gonna be buckytony so once i’m done with this one (which is gonna take a while) then i’ll uh start that one haha
> 
> thanks for puttin’ up with my shit


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ٩( ᐛ )و

Bruce is already half-asleep, leaning against the locked glass double doors of Tony’s beloved library when Tony gets there. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder and a takeout plastic bag which looks like it’s still full of food in one hand. Howard’ll be home by now, but it’s fine, Tony guesses.

 

He unlocks the doors, ignoring Bruce’s confused face when he sees that Tony has a key, ignoring Bruce’s quiet concerned “Tony? You okay?”

 

Why would he not be okay? Tony throws a brief glance at Bruce but doesn’t comment as he pushes the doors open. Bruce follows him inside. The library is dark and Tony knows that it must look at least a little foreboding to Bruce, large towering shelves stacked full of books. When he looks at Bruce, though, he sees a hint of a grin tugging on the corners of Bruce’s lips.

 

“Tony, this is- this library looks great,” he says. “You come here often?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony says. Even though there’s no one present here, he likes to keep his voice down. But then again, it’s not like he has anyone to talk to on normal days in the library. He leads Bruce down the same Sci-Fi corridor and turns the same corner as he did with Natasha, feeling tendrils of déjà vu creeping over him. He’s not scared of the dark anymore and the library holds no surprises for him anymore. He’s been everywhere - Yinsen’s office, behind the counter, in every imaginable sector of the library, in the photocopy room, in the computer room, and of course, his Corner.

 

Bruce’s eyes widen in shock.

 

“Tony, that’s amazing!” he says, and Tony nods stiffly because he remembers what happened with Natasha the last time he brought someone else here, hoping Bruce won’t have the same wish to come here more often. But he shrugs vaguely.

 

“Dunno if you brought uh, a sleeping bag, but,” Tony sits down one of the armchairs and pats the blanket in what he hopes is a comforting manner, “you won’t need it. I guess. There’s stuff here, and it’s pretty comfy ‘cause I can turn on the air-con, and you can-” here he glances at Bruce’s takeout- “eat here, if you want.”

 

Bruce swivels, presumably looking for the No Eating sign, but Tony jumps up and spreads his hands quickly to catch his attention. “I have an agreement, uh, with the librarian.” He shuffles awkwardly, almost tripping over the armchair. Fucking human disaster.

 

“Uh, okay,” Bruce says. Then suddenly he looks back at Tony and grins. “Thank you, Tony,” he says, and it’s so earnest Tony feels a chill creep up his spine.

 

“Welcome,” he says, trying to match Bruce’s tone to show that he really does mean it. “I mean, I know what it means. To, disagree with your father. And not want to go home. Y’know. I mean, I’ve stayed over here before.”

 

Bruce nods thoughtfully. “Yeah man. I should expect that from your dad, I mean.” He smiles woefully. “High expectations, am I right?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony says softly.

 

“Thank you,” Bruce calls after him again, and he turns to smile over his shoulder as he leaves. He writes a note to Yinsen on the counter explaining that it’s his friend and adds an inside joke as proof before leaving the key on the counter and slipping out the library. He steels himself to check his phone before starting the walk home.

 

Mr. Stark: Where are you?

  
  
  
  


“We’re sorry,” Steve says for the ninth time that day, desperately wringing his hands like the adorable gentleman he is. “We shouldn’t have been drinking, we thought-”

 

“He said it, it’s fine,” Nat laughs, hand coming over to squeeze Bruce’s lightly. That’s what Bruce likes about Nat; she’s really - physical, as in she likes to touch people to give them (and herself) a sense of security. He likes it.

 

Steve chews on his lip but refrains from another apology. He looks like he’s about to run circles around Bruce in frustrated regret. “Then what- what happened?” he asks. “Did your dad - shout at you? Did he hit you?” The last question is a horrified whisper.

 

“I slept somewhere else,” Bruce says shortly, squinting in fond memory as he remembers getting woken up by the genial librarian. He’s happy that Tony has such a guardian. Bruce’s father has never hit him before, but his drinking habits have made him fearful more than once.

 

“Where?” Clint blurts before Nat whacks him on the arm. (Her tendency to touch those she cares about can be expressed in this way too.) He shuts up, and Bruce wonders if he does want to tell him. It’s very obvious how fond Tony is of the library, and he knows that his group doesn’t have exactly pleasant experiences with Tony. He doesn’t even know why, though. Tony is a nice guy, no other way to put it. And here’s a chance to prove it, is it not?

 

That’s what prompts him to say, “Tony brought me somewhere. I slept over, and it was actually really nice.”

 

Clint’s eyes widen into saucers, but Bruce is looking at Natasha, hoping to generate some sort of reaction. Instead she just asks, “Was it the library?”

 

With little other choice, Bruce nods.

 

Steve frowns, looking between Bruce and Nat, trying to gain some semblance of information. “Tony? As in, Tony Stark?”

 

“You slept over at his place?” Clint screeches at the same time.

 

Originally planning for this reaction, Bruce’s decision had been to just ignore them and continue finding ways to show that Tony wasn’t actually all bad, but all that gets shot to hell when Natasha bursts out laughing. It’s so rare for her to show emotion in a public place such as school that Clint and Steve stare open-mouthed.

 

“I don’t understand,” poor Steve stammers.

 

“It was just funny,” Nat says cryptically. “C’mon, Bruce,” she says cheerfully, and Bruce follows her to lesson, wondering what she has managed to unearth about Tony that he hasn’t.

  
  
  


Nat isn’t surprised to see Tony fast asleep on his table when she comes in with the milkshake. She’s making it a habit, bringing Tony a milkshake once a week when they have History after lunch break. His eyelashes are really long, she thinks, sitting down beside his table and watching him breathe unobtrusively.

 

He wakes up with a start as the bell rings, heart jumping in his throat, scatterings of images fading into the back of his mind. When he sees Natasha he jerks backward again, hands flying to his heart before dropping awkwardly into his lap.

 

“For you,” she says, nodding at the shake.

 

Tony swallows audibly, gaze flitting between her and the drink. “Why?” he asks, fighting to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

 

“I like you,” Natasha says evenly, “and you haven’t eaten.”

 

Tony takes an excruciatingly long time to process this information. He looks between the shake and Nat some more, trying to focus his wandering thoughts.

 

“You like me?” he says finally.

 

“Drink it,” Nat growls and Tony quickly takes a tentative sip, eyeing her warily. She reaches over and her fingers curl around his wrist for a fraction of a minute, her piercingly perceptive gaze spearing into his. “Can you eat lunch with us? Next break?”

 

Nat can feel his fingers trembling against her. “Why?” he asks.

 

It’s at that moment fourth period Ms. Hill walks in, and their conservation is abruptly over. Nat stands up, borrowing the movement to pat Tony’s shoulder comfortingly. As she returns to her seat she can feel Tony’s confused brown gaze on her.

  
  
  


Tony is miserable.

 

It’s just after lunch break and he’s starving, Natasha’s sudden act of kindness clutched in his hand. Howard lets him eat, sure, but he doesn’t like going to the canteen because there’re so many people there and - just maybe, they might freak him out a little. He only goes after school when there are less people around and when he skips Physics (he’s exempted, he spends his time in the Lab).

 

Howard didn’t hit him last night, but he did glare at him in a way that promises future pain. Tony sags in his seat a little more thinking about that incident. Whenever Howard has to text Tony he ends up getting really angry. The only reason Howard didn’t touch him yesterday was because Tony’s still healing, he suspects. He’s not looking forward to this weekend. Thankfully, Yinsen isn’t angry at him for bringing Bruce in and he saw Bruce smiling earlier, so all should be fine, right?

 

Tony’s so, so tired and he just wants it all to stop. He wishes Natasha would stop being randomly nice and making his heart yawn in hope. She likes him, she’d said. Had he said something wrong? That made it sound like he had money? Tony mulls this over, trying to cast aside the idle buzzing in his tired brain.

 

He tries to take notes in History, because Ms. Hill is explaining how to write the essay and include a bibliography but he can’t focus. His thoughts keep swinging back to how Nat looked at him. How Pep was crying when she brought him home. That’s on you, he thinks to himself. How Rhodey (Mr. Rhodes) was so, so angry. Looking up he catches a glimpse of Nat taking notes and he guesses it’s okay. Whatever.

 

He must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up to the harsh jarring ring of the fifth period bell. Thankful, Tony staggers to his feet and sees Natasha watching him. He offers what he hopes looks like an apologetically tired smile and she smiles back! She smiles back! Tony pinches himself on the upper arm and wanders out of the classroom. It’s Physics, which means he should normally go to the Lab, but today he just wants to find a cupboard and sleep in it. Sometimes he has bad days. Today is definitely one of them.

 

Tony gets a little lost, turning circles in the school’s corridors before he gives up and goes down to the basement to head for the lab. Normally this wouldn’t happen, but his head hurts and he’s a little dizzy to say the least. He can just catch a nap in the lab, there won’t be anyone there. The corridors are already painfully empty. His eye is twitching painfully so Tony takes out his contacts and transfers his glasses from his jacket pocket to his forehead. He actually wishes there’s someone to talk to as he curls up in the corner of the Lab behind the mechanical components rack and prepares to drift off, watching the red flashing light on Dum-E in his charging station.

 

After some aimless drifting, he jerks awake to the faintly familiar buzz of welding work. Something crashes on top of him and he shouts, sound muffled, struggling up and out of the mess. Upon further inspection it appears to have been a car motor, and Tony escapes relatively unscathed. Until when he emerges from behind the rack.

 

Justin Hammer is sitting loosely in the swivelling chair, ankles crossed and propped on the workshop table, eyebrow lifted, gloved hands shoved casually in his pockets. Tony wants to point out that it isn’t safe to weld without the goggles, but he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“Aw, poor Tony,” Hammer croons. “Did someone beat you up again?”

 

Tony shakes his head resolutely, avoiding Hammer’s eyes. He glances toward the door and briefly wonders if making a run for it is a wise decision. For all he knows, Hammer’s friends could be on their way.

 

“Oh, I forgot,” Hammer pauses in mock contemplation. “Nobody does that anymore, right? Because your father dragged you into a prestigious school?”

 

Times like these Tony really wishes he hadn’t changed schools. His father had insisted, and even more so after… well, After. It’d just been pure luck that Hammer’d transferred to the same ‘prestigious’ college, on the same scholarship. The silver lining is that S.H.I.E.L.D. has a stricter policy and nobody has beaten him up. Tony bites his lip and keeps quiet.

 

“You do know,” Hammer murmurs, eyes flitting over the bruises around his left jaw where he hit the ground jumping from a window yesterday; “nothing has changed, right?”

 

“Stop,” Tony says. He edges toward the door, keeping his front facing Hammer defensively, waiting for Hammer to make the first move so he can say it was all in self-defense. Hammer’s smarter than he looks, because he doesn’t make said move. Tony’s also grateful, because the mere fact that he got into a fight at school won’t go over well with Howard.

 

Justin sneers, eyes cold and cutting. Tony takes another step toward the door. “I hope you haven’t started to think that people could actually like you, now,” he says. Tony feels his back hit the door of the Lab and automatically curls his hand around the handle, ready to make a run for it if Hammer’s friends appear. He knows from experience (blowing up the Lab) that there are no cameras in the Lab. Once he gets out into the corridor, though, that’s a different story.

 

“How’s it going with you and your father?” Hammer spits and that’s the last straw. Tony flings the door open and turns, ignoring the strange prickling behind his eyes. Hammer’s cruel laughing behind him makes his heart shake with the slightest of tremors.

 

It’s a small mercy that at least Hammer is open about how much he hates Tony. Tony certainly hopes nobody hates him and hides it. He passes Zeke in the hallway but he keeps his head down and Zeke doesn’t notice him.

 

Only when he reaches the hauntingly empty canteen does he put his head down, hiding behind his arms, and lets the tears fall.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s March 6th, Wednesday. Clint is balanced on the railing of the spectating stand, watching Steve and Sam running their laps, legs swinging idly, humming Nat’s nameless Russian lullaby low in his throat. His gaze is centred on Bucky, who’s cross-legged on the training benches, tweaking at his arm ill-naturedly. His birthday is this Sunday. It must be perfect.

 

And it will be, Clint thinks, flexing his fingers against the rail habitually, aching for a bowstring to draw. Whatever Nat plans has to be perfect. She’ll murder them all if it’s even a little disappointing. And while Clint isn’t scared of her at all (nope, not even a little bit), he shares the same view because hey, man, it’s Bucky. 

 

Bucky’s tougher than any of them, really. Clint grew up in the circus, so that’s sayin’ something. After he lost his arm Buck moved to the Big Apple and Clint’s still not sure if he likes it here. His almost foreign-yet-not accent makes people look strangely at him and he likes to wear long sleeves in public just so nobody has to look at his prosthetic. Clint knows that they’ve all told him at least once about how it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and that he isn’t really ashamed of it, just uncomfortable having strangers be able to prod at a still open wound.

 

So the plan for this Sunday. Steve, Sam and Bruce will stay behind to bake the cake while Clint and Nat bring Bucky to ice skating (they’ve heard from Steve that he secretly wants to learn). Then Thor, Jane and Darcy will rent a whole bunch of movies from the shop and they’ll eat dinner together at Buck’s favourite place, this fancy tiny restaurant which looks beautiful at night. Then they’ll go home, cut the cake and give their presents, and finally fall asleep watching bad horror flicks. Sounds good to Clint. 

 

Bucky deserves the best. Clint knows he’s sometimes insecure, even with all that toughness, being the one last introduced to the group. Clint can tell he’s tentative that they’ll even remember. He should know never to doubt Nat, Clint thinks fondly, rolling his fingertips on the railing. 

 

Speaking of Nat… Clint really doesn’t know what’s going on. When he heard that Bruce not going home had something to do with Stark, he admits that well yeah, he did jump to the worst conclusion, but what good could come out of this? Maybe Stark is being legit because Bruce’s intellect matches his and whatever, but Clint guesses it doesn’t hurt to be a little paranoid. Or over-protective. Or just careful. What shocks him is that Nat is in on it too; what is she not telling him? About Stark? She’s the most interested, least opinionated about Stark in their group because she believes in collecting data before constructing viewpoints. Clint sincerely hopes her first impression of him was good. 

 

Nat tells him  _ everything _ . 

 

Clint hops off the railing and heads down to talk to Buck. Always better with company.

  
  
  


Tony is in a state of mild panic. 

 

Not exactly total panic. He’s hugging his knees, balancing himself on one of the benches along the Science Block, listening to the quiet whistle of wind. It’s getting warmer now, but it’s also starting to rain. Tony has been having shit luck these few days. 

 

His Language Final is tomorrow. While Tony isn’t worried of doing badly, he’s worried that Howard won’t be happy with it. Last year he got straight As with Bs for Art and Geography and Howard had locked him in the Cabinet for one whole day. Tony’s fingers shake just thinking about it. At least he didn’t beat him up that time. The worst is when he does both but he usually doesn’t because there’s a real chance of Tony actually dying.

 

Also, if he doesn’t do well, Howard might pull him out again. And he doesn’t want to, just like he didn’t want to leave MIT. He’s actually made friends, like Matt and maybe Bruce? Nobody picking on him is a bonus. And nobody really cares enough to find out all about his insecurities and purposefully jab at them, four out of four. His Mama, Howard, being generally useless, and having nobody. 

 

Tony starts to take deep, deep breaths, playing absently with his fingers. Each pull of air to his lungs hurts because his throat is sore. Outside he can hear the rain coming down, thousands of tiny feet thundering on the pavement. Tony pillows his head on his arms and tries not to feel too sorry for himself. He has an umbrella but if he gets his shoes wet Howard won’t be happy. But if he’s late home Howard won’t be happy either. Another thing is that his shirt (he wore a shirt today because it’s not cold enough to wear his sweatshirt with his hoodie and his hoodie is protection) is white and if Tony gets it wet, it’s gonna be see-through, and people will start asking questions like why are there ugly red marks on your back, Tony?

 

Tony suddenly aches to call someone, Matt or Pepper. Not Bruce, Bruce already met him once today, and that’s probably enough. 

 

One thing he also consciously tries not to do is be annoying. And he keeps a mental tally of how many times each person has had to interact with him. He thinks once a day is enough, and is trying to keep to that but each time only lasts a few minutes so Tony is still mostly alone. He hates being alone, and sometimes people look at him in sympathy/disgust because they know he’s a loser. 

 

The rain keeps coming, so Tony pulls The Tale of Two Cities out and re-reads. Never hurts to do some extra revision. 

  
  
  
  
  


Clint clicks his tongue in amusement at Steve and Sam, who are still grumbling under their breaths. Steve’s blonde hair is hanging limp and unappealing over his forehead as a result of being caught in the rain, and Clint can’t help but snicker with Bucky. 

 

“Hey, cheer up,” Bucky says. “Rain is the best weather for studying.”

 

“I don’t wanna study,” Sam growls, flopping down on the bench next to Clint. “I’ve read the book over so much I’m ready to go to the gallows myself.” 

 

“That’s not funny, Sam,” Steve says, frowning. Everyone groans and shoves him. Steve suffers in good-natured silence and edges away from them.

 

“Finals sucks,” Clint says, because he’s feeling angsty. “Nat won’t even talk to me now because she’s so focused on getting good grades to impress her mum. Bruce hasn’t gotten out of his hardworking-headspace in days. And even Thor goes home early now.”

 

“Yeah, only you’re here without a good reason.” Shots fired! Clint glares at Sam and opens his mouth, brain already up and running to look for a witty comeback. Something to do with football. Hit where it hurts.

 

“Stop,” Steve says. They shut up. 

 

“Let’s just relax, okay?” Buck says after a moment. “Rain is relaxing. Let’s go to a café or something. Talk about the book in a civil way instead of mugging.”

 

“We could run in the rain,” Clint says. “Always wanted to do that.”

 

“Are you going to get a cold the day before your Final?” Steve thunders. Clint scoffs. Drama queen. 

 

“Let’s not talk about Finals,” Sam suggests. “Let’s just, just take a break. The school’s empty now. We could just find a classroom and just talk.”

 

Steve looks vaguely disapproving but everyone ignores him. “Sounds good,” Buck says. 

 

They wander into the school, Steve and Sam still drying their hair to avoid leaving puddles to slip on. The school is dark and slightly haunting. “Could make a horror movie out of this place ‘ere,” Bucky says. 

 

Sam cuffs him on the arm and they lapse into easy silence. That is, until they turn the corner and find Tony Stark huddled on the ground, cheek pressed to the wall and tongue poking out between his teeth.

 

“Is this why Nat went all Mama Bear on him?” Bucky mutters after a minute of suspended shock. 

 

“He’s tiny,” Steve says. Of course he’d be sensitive about that. 

 

“Seriously?” Clint says. “My first thought was that he looks like a small, homeless, penniless kid. Kinda adorable.”

 

“Uh, why is he sleeping here?” Sam says. Which really should have been all of their first thoughts. 

 

Silence falls over them, then Steve speaks. “Damn, he’s supposed to be in high school,” he says.

 

Tony’s eyelashes flutter a little and they all take an instinctive step back. He twitches, murmurs a little, then turns his face back to the wall. 

 

“Maybe it’s ‘cause of the rain and his chauffeur is in a jam,” Sam says. “And he fell asleep waiting.”

 

“Shouldn’t we wake him up, then?” Bucky says. “Maybe we can talk. I mean sometimes he’s a dick but we could still talk. Get to know him. He’s the only one in the school none of us have even interacted much with.”

 

“One of us has interacted with him,” Clint remembers. He digs in his pocket and unlocks his phone. “Imma text Nat.”

 

“Yeah man, Clint can’t do anything without his girl,” Sam jokes. 

 

Shots fired, Clint thinks once more. He really needs to pull a prank on Sam. He files that away. 

  
  
  
  
  


**feathers:** sup nat

 

Clint’s the only one she didn’t put on mute, and even he knows better than to disturb her studying. Nat hooks the messy curls that have escaped her study bun out of her face and flips the phone over.

 

**nat:** yes

 

**feathers:** we found er tony stark

**feathers:** sleepin

**feathers:** on th floor in sch

 

**nat:** dont wake him up

 

**feathers** : k?

 

Nat mulls this over, watching the rain-induced fog blurring out the tall skyscrapers in the distance. Tony can’t go home if it’s raining; why? Maybe his car will be stuck in a jam. She crosses to the window and looks out; it’s true that it’s quite busy on the roads. Cars are moving impossibly slowly.

 

**nat:** what you doing in sch

 

**feathers:** nuthun

**feathers:** im w sam steve n buck

 

Bucky… This Sunday is his birthday. Nat leaves a mental reminder to tell Tony to meet again on Saturday. At her place, because they’re staying over and she needs to be there when they arrive. Tony doesn’t even have the address. 

 

Tomorrow. She gets the feeling Tony needs sleep. She sighs, turns off her phone and tries to refocus on the passage she’s reading.

 

 

 

**feathers:** uh

**feathers:** he woke up

**feathers:** may b we were starin creepily 

**feathers:** cos he totally freaked out 

**feathers:** and ran 

**feathers:** halp 

**feathers:** halp

**feathers:** nat

**feathers:** nat 

**feathers:** nat

**feathers:** help helddkrjejjdkdjsjdjj

**feathers:** nat y u mute me

**feathers:** do we go aft him

**feathers:** naaaaaaaaaaaaaaat 

**feathers:** wtv buck wants to talk w him

**feathers:** nat u suck

**feathers:** he’s ok w talking to us right 

**feathers:** bye nat


	18. Chapter 18

Clint has had his fair share of awkward silences. This one here, though, with Tony’s back to the curtain of rain dripping from the gateway arch and Steve, Buck and Sam standing uneasily against the walls on either side, really trumps them all. 

 

“What do you want?” Tony says finally. For some reason he’s sat down and is curling in on himself like they saw him do in his sleep. It seems to be a position he adopts very often. 

 

“Just’a talk, man,” Bucky says, but he’s also shifting backwards uncomfortably. 

 

Steve is the only one who looks somewhat calm. “Tony, is everything okay?” he says, holding out a hand to Tony as if to help him up. Tony doesn’t take it. Clint doubts he even sees it; he’s staring at the floor like it holds all the answers to his existence. Steve purses his lips and lets his arm drop to his side. 

 

Clint studies the boy. He looks awfully young and awfully tired, and everything about his body language screams out to get away; he’s tilted towards the rain even when he keeps his front to the three of them, his fingers are curled and clenching nervously. To be very honest he looks terrified.

 

“We’re not gonna hit you,” he says, taking the initiative and sitting down. Maybe that’s the problem, and Tony’s shoulders seem to tense again, but he swivels slightly and raises huge brown eyes to meet Clint’s.

 

“What d’you want?” he repeats.

 

“We don’ want anything, didn’t you hear?” Bucky says. Sam and Clint glance at each other and Clint can tell Bucky’s losing patience.

 

“Tony, it’s okay. We just wanna know if everything’s okay,” Steve says, dropping to one knee beside Clint to reach the same level. Tony keeps quiet, watching their faces like he’s supposed to see something there.

 

He drops his face back towards the floor and mumbles something, fiddling with the straps of his backpack. 

 

“Sorry?” Sam asks. Clint’s glad that he’s keeping his distance along with Bucky, both of them leaning against the wall and giving Tony a window of space to escape through if he feels like it.

 

“I can’t give you money,” Tony says, a little louder this time, and Bucky leans forward to listen but Clint caught it and he knows Steve did too. 

Steve bumps shoulders with him and they exchange looks. Steve looks bewildered, a little offended, and Clint is too. Why does Tony automatically think they only want to be friends with him for his money? It’s a little snobby, but Clint guesses they can’t blame him, because it’s how he was brought up.

 

He changes tactics. “Tony, we haven’t gotten to know you much, and you’re like the only one in school that, well, keeps to himself a lot.” He pauses expectantly, raising his eyebrows and hoping that Tony will finish the sentence himself in his mind.

  
  
  
  


That’s just a nice way of saying you don’t have friends, the angry part of his brain hisses.

 

Tony twitches, because that kinda hurts. Not much, because he knows it’s true, but they must really hate him to say it to his face, even if it’s a little sugar-coated. He doesn’t understand; isn’t it human nature to be kind to each other? What has he done to warrant this?

 

Barton and Rogers are standing up, coming closer. Tony inches the slightest margin backwards. Steve Rogers looks at him, his gaze somewhat confused and just a little irritated. Tony remembers that Steve has been asking him repeatedly the same thing; whether he’s okay, but he doesn’t really know how to answer because he doesn’t want to lie and he doesn’t even know what “okay” defines.

 

“I’m fine,” he settles on, which is the standard way he’s taught himself. “I just need to- go home.” His eyes flit to Steve and drop to the watch on his wrist, hanging by his side. 5:07PM.

 

He still has time, he guesses. 

 

Now  _ Barnes  _ is coming closer, and he can feel fingers of panic creeping upward to wrap around the sides of his heart. He knows it’s kind of irrational, but he just really doesn’t want the same thing as before to happen. Bucky has a metal arm that (don’t get him wrong, is awesome, yes) can definitely pack a punch. Tony remembers the last time they met Barnes didn’t take kindly to him trying to chat up with Bruce. Now that Bruce is warming up to him - even slept in the Library on his recommendation, chances are dangerously high that Barnes isn’t happy about it.

 

“Don’t-!” he blurts, hands flying out in the universal sign for Stop. Barnes freezes, and his forehead creases into a frown that might be disgusted, annoyed or everything and anything negative. 

 

“Jeez, chill,” Wilson says. Thankfully he doesn’t come closer, just grabs Barnes’ arm and pulls him the slightest bit backwards.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony blurts, going back to staring at the floor. “It’s- I can’t, I’m really bad at-  _ this _ .” He waves his hands vaguely, and in a way it’s true. The only way he can actually interact with others is if he’s prepared for it, like that time he could talk to Natasha during their History study session. “Uh,” he says quickly before Barnes (who really looks like he wants to) can come closer again. He squeezes his eyes shut in exasperation. Why can’t he just talk like a normal human being? Tony really hates - being Tony. He’s so tired of this, people treading on eggshells around him because they think he’s sensitive or something and looking at him strangely because he’s so damn fragile. All of them are giving him a huge berth. Tony knows he’s so - so close to getting thrown off the edge and into the darkness of utter panic. 

 

“OK, we won’t push,” Barton says. He’s looking Tony straight in the eye; he can’t - he looks back at the floor, swallowing. He’s- terrified, actually. It must be obvious, because Rogers doesn’t make anymore moves that could potentially make Tony freak out. “Just-” he looks down at his phone. “Know that we can help, okay? I don’t know, if you need it. Just, feel free.”

  
  
  
  


Clint doesn’t think Tony will feel free. He looks like he’s trembling in fear, staring resolutely down at the floor, biting his lip so hard Clint is fearful he’s gonna draw blood. “Also, um, Nat says you can meet. At her place. I’ll give you her number, ’kay?” 

 

Tony nods almost imperceptibly and reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone, still not meeting Clint’s eyes. He hands it up like an offering and Clint unlocks it (there’s no password) to add Nat’s number. Tony doesn’t have a lot of contacts but he ignores it. This is probably his work phone. 

 

“She’ll text you the address - um, this Saturday, okay, Tony?”

 

“Okay,” Tony answers quietly. Then he looks up, gaze wavering. “I’m - I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m bad. At this. Socially awkward. It’s a thing. Medical.” Then he cringes at himself so hard Clint feels sorry for him. 

 

“No problem,” Bucky says. When Clint and Steve look back at him he looks conflicted. 

 

Tony blinks owlishly at Bucky. “Is your ring finger malfunctioning?” he blurts suddenly, then clamps his hands over his mouth and shudders. Bucky opens his mouth, confused, but Tony is already backtracking. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, don’t worry,” he steamrolls, dragging his bag over his shoulder. He looks at them for a while before walking away - it’s very obvious he’s making a conscious effort to walk calmly.

  
  
  
  


March 9th, Saturday. Natasha has memorised her plan for the BirthdayTM and is idly repeating it over and over in her mind, spread-eagled on the bed to stretch her muscles, sore from hunching over revision. Language Finals on Thursday was okay, just okay. Nat wishes it’d been better, but apparently not. Math was slightly better - fuck that, Nat’s proud of her Math. She thinks she did well. She needs some well-deserved self-respect. 

 

Now, all that’s left for her to worry about is the geography essay, the Sciences, and History.

 

History - she flips over her phone to check the time. 1:34PM. Tony’s late. She stretches out once more, letting loose a long guttural groan as her sore muscles fight to relax. She could use a little shuteye, she thinks, and once she closes her eyes she falls asleep. 

 

Nat wakes up to the timid ring of the doorbell. She yawns and leans over to check the time; 1:52PM. Jesus, how long as Tony been ringing? Quickly, she jumps up, checks her appearance in the mirror (she looks awful) and runs down to answer the door.

 

When she moved to the States, Nat rented an apartment with Clint. It isn’t big and it isn’t small - well it’s quite small, but there’re two levels to make up for that - and it’s super cosy. Nat loves it here, and so does everyone on their gang. Sure, the Rogers’ house is bigger, and Thor’s house is huge (Thor doesn’t look it but he’s some foreign prince or something and his family is huge in Scandinavia or something. Every family comes with their own problems, and Thor’s younger brother is a little more than rebellious, which is why Nat isn’t exactly jealous of him. But it’s a touchy subject, and they don’t bring it up. It’s just an agreement, between their friend-group). But nothing can compare to dog-piling up on each other and falling asleep happy. Okay, Nat admits it’s cheesy as all hell; but it’s also the greatest feeling in the world and she wouldn’t give it away for anything. 

 

Yes, her house is amazing and all the people she’d die for love it - that’s seven (Clint Steve Buck Bruce Thor Sam and her mum, she can say it so fast like what they do with tongue-twisters) - but as she opens the door it can’t help but cross her mind that Tony might not like it.

 

And she wouldn’t blame him, really. It’s small and cramped and when everyone comes over there’s barely space to walk through the door. But she doesn’t really have time to react to this thought because her hand is already curling around the handle and pulling the door open. 

 

First thing that crosses her mind: Tony looks  _ horrible _ . His eyes are red-rimmed and he looks like he still has a bedhead. One glance and she can tell he’s been crying, but she agrees with herself to play it off as a bad night’s sleep. Tony looks like he really doesn’t need her to ask questions at the moment.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a long minute, bowing his head meekly. “I got- got lost.”

 

“You didn’t take a car here?” Nat asks. She’d thought he’d have a GPS. “My bad. C’mon, it’s okay. Want anything to eat?”

 

Nat’s appalled to search within herself and find that she’s actually a little nervous. She can tell she’s speaking faster than normal and she’s a little apprehensive about how Tony would feel about her place.

 

“No, not really,” Tony says, lacing his fingers together and studying his linked hands. Nat thinks he might be blushing. “I’m sorry,” he adds before she can get a word in. “I look like, uh, I know I look horrible but I’m just really really stressed. Sorry.” 

 

“It’s okay,” Nat laughs. “I just woke up. I look bad too.”

 

“You fell asleep?” Tony asks in dismay. 

 

“Tony, it’s okay,” Natasha stresses, moving away from the door to let him come in. Whether he wants it or not, she’s hungry, so she goes to the kitchen. A quick glance in the reflective surface of the glass door tells her that Tony hasn’t followed. Instead, he’s looking rather awkward standing in the space between the living room and the front door, throwing small timid glances at the door like he expects people to barge in. 

 

“They’re only coming at seven,” Nat calls out. Tony immediately jerks away and takes a step back into the living room, twisting his hands together. “You can go to my room first,” she says, taking pity on him. “Second door on your right.” 

 

He does so obediently, keeping his eyes down and leaving the door open as if trying to reassure her that he’s not up to no good inside. When he starts pulling the materials out of his bag Nat turns her attention back to the kitchen. 

 

She doesn’t know why, but she wants to make pancakes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof sorry for the “long wait” lmao
> 
> I find that I update a lot? Like a lot, a lot? How long do you guys normally take to read each chapter of around 2k words?

Maybe it was a bad idea, Natasha thinks, listening quietly as Tony turns over in his sleep, muttering nonsensically. He sounds like he’s teaching a Physics Masterclass; Natasha catches hints of formulas she recognises and others she never will. It’s overwhelming, how sheer and authentic Tony’s intelligence is. Maybe not the right word, but whatever. Although everyone knows that Tony’s really smart, she can’t help but think it’s still a little underrated. She’s seen Dum-E, she’s seen some of his brainstorming with Bruce (that already looks like completed projects to her) and now she sees that even in slumber his mind is running. 

 

Tony turns over again, murmurs some more. His tone of voice shifts into more conservational grounds and she can hear fondness in his voice. She watches his (really too long) lashes dance as his eyelids flutter before deep sleep drags him back under. 

 

Nat’s heart aches for him. It’s already difficult to never be enough for his father’s standards. She knows Tony doesn’t have a great deal of self-esteem, prior to social expectation, and she recognises that weariness from seeing it on herself. What’s added on is that the whole school population doesn’t have a good impression of him at all. They shun him for his intelligence, his wealth and if they found out, probably his social difficulties. That’s why Nat never really wanted to be rich. She’s happy, which is more than she can say for Tony. 

  
  


She knows Tony has a friend called Matthew but he’s in the Senior cohort and way older than him. Although Tony may be smart enough to be up there maybe the school management thought it’d be better for him to learn with people closer to his age, so he’s in the Junior class. That’s good, in itself, but it doesn’t hurt Tony to have more friends who will always be there. She doubts Tony pours his heart and soul out to Matthew either, and that means that what Matthew can’t see, Matthew will never know. 

 

She just really wants to look out for him. 

 

She’s glad, though, because her friends don’t hate him that much anymore. They’ve come to see that while he’s awkward and sometimes rude, none of that is really his choice. Though they did freak out when she told them he was sleeping on the couch in the living room. 

 

Which wasn’t really her intention, either. She realised that he needed sleep, almost desperately, so she plotted (deviously) and arranged so that after they finished History she let him wait on the couch while she fiddled with the television in preparation of her friends’ arrival. Sure enough, Tony promptly fell asleep and she let him. She just… didn’t think he’d sleep that long. It’s fine, though. As long as they’re all okay, which they are. 

 

Bruce is happy, she can tell. She has to admit it’s one thing they’re all not doing right around him. When Bruce lapses into technical jargon all of them automatically tune out. It’s not even that Bruce is smarter, just that it doesn’t really appeal much to them to listen closely enough to put the pieces together. With Tony around, she’s sure they’ll both do much better. 

 

“I don’t know, Mamma,” Tony whispers, low in the back of his throat. An image flashes into Nat’s mind, one of Tony wrapped in a large jacket, nose pink, clutching a huge cup of coffee like a lifeline, saying “I’m Italian, I’ve been drinking coffee all my life.” She pulls the blanket up around his ears and pads out of the room to give him some privacy in his dreams.

  
  
  


March 10, Sunday. “Big day, today,” Nat murmuring in his ear wakes Clint up. Groggy, he shoves at her and she falls over, obviously not awake enough to have been able to keep her balance. Grinning in triumph, Clint sits up and squints at the clock.

 

“What the hell, Nat, it’s too early,” he whisper-shouts, flopping back onto the sleeping bag with a groan.

 

Nat’s lips form a shape he’s been forbidden to call ‘pout’. “I gotta wake Tony up, and I don’t wanna be the only one awake.” 

 

Attempting to drag his brain out of sleep-induced fog, Clint manages to add the words “wake up” and “Tony” together. Right. Stark slept over. “I didn’t know he has social anxiety,” Clint mumbles, more to himself than to Nat. She pulls him up, huffing disgruntledly.

 

“Nobody knew,” she says. Clint supposes that’s true, and he lifts himself up onto one elbow to watch Nat as she snakes around the sleeping Bruce and Thor to get out of the room. He closes his eyes and drifts into light sleep for a while more before finally sitting up and stretching, careful not to make any noise to wake them all up.

 

“How you feeling?” he hears Nat ask Tony as he swaggers into the room, stones dragging down on his eyelids. Why the hell is he so tired? Oh right, ‘cause he didn’t sleep last night. Ha-fucking-ha. Nat scowls at him and he shrugs at her, maybe he’d said that one out loud. 

 

“M’okay,” Tony murmurs, wrestling himself out of the cocoon of blankets he has burrowed into. When Clint next comes out of the washroom, that tone is drastically changed. Tony is huddled on the couch, already with his jacket on and looking more awake than Clint feels, repeating the same thing in a low voice: “I can go, I can go. It’s no problem.”

 

“At least have breakfast?” Nat’s pouting again. Clint wonders if she knows there’s not much effect when used against Tony, who’s at least two years younger than her. 

 

Tony looks up and switches on his puppy eyes (maybe intentionally, maybe unintentionally but still) causing Nat to stumble back with the force of it.

 

“I don’t wanna intrude,” he says quietly. They maintain eye contact for a few more seconds, long enough for Clint to think  _ yes he’s fucking adorable  _ before self-consciousness catches up to Tony and he lowers his head slowly. “Sorry,” he adds quickly. 

 

“You’re not intruding-” Nat begins but Clint cuts in, crossing the room in long strides. 

 

“Yeah man, you can go. It’s no problem if you stay, but it’s up to you. I mean, I get it if you wanna go, you’re not close to Buck and y’know it’s his birthday celebration.”

 

Tony nods fervently. Clint glances at Nat and Jesus Christ, she’s actually glaring at him. He quickly looks back to Tony. 

 

“Yeah, I can go, I can go.” He offers a tentative smile in their direction before fisting his fingers in his jacket and looking back down. 

 

“I’ll bring you,” Nat says.

 

Tony looks half-afraid that Nat will be angry at this rejection, “It’s- okay.” 

 

Clint briefly wonders what the hell Howard Stark was doing bringing up his kid like this. “Next Saturday, library?” Nat asks as she walks him to the door. Tony bites his lip as he nods.

 

“Thank- thank you,” he murmurs quietly, looking for all the world like he’s escaping as he ducks out the door. Clint and Nat watch him walk down the corridor with his shoulders hunched and head down. She doesn’t say anything as she pulls away from the door once he’s out of sight. Clint wonders if she’s mad at him but she doesn’t look like it. 

 

“What the hell  _ is _ going on?” she just mutters under her breath, twisting her fingers around each other angrily. When he scoots closer to let their shoulders touch she exhales, a long drawn-out breath that doesn’t look like it really calmed her down. “I can’t figure any of it out.”

 

“Buck’s birthday,” Clint reminds her, heading to the kitchen.

 

“Pancakes?” she asks. 

 

“No, it’s gotta be special, y’know?”

  
  
  
  


The next time Clint sees Tony, he’s laughing. The three of them - Nat, Buck and himself - are walking down Third Avenue, sore and tired from a session of hardcore ice-skating (even Nat fell on her ass, twice! And Bucky, who’s never skated before, was tumbling over left and right but they had so much fun Clint’s face is sore from grinning), and Clint is just turning his head and he sees Tony in the library. He looks so  _ different _ it takes Clint’s breath away - his eyes are lit up in interest, square glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, lean figure slanted against the librarian’s counter, talking animatedly with the librarian. Yinsen, Clint thinks he’s called. Tony looks properly alive for once, honey brown eyes sparkling, lips curved into an excited grin. Mr. Yinsen says something and Tony throws his head back to laugh, eyes closed in mirth behind his glasses and - Clint has to stare. He looks healthy. Something he hasn’t seen before. He looks almost fifteen - but then he  _ is, _ Clint reminds himself.

 

He turns to see a matching grin on Buck’s face. “Thanks, y’all,” Buck is saying earnestly, almost shyly. Clint knows he’s not sure whether it’s a coincidence that they brought him out today or whether they actually remembered his birthday. “I had fun.”

 

“No problem,” Nat says briskly. “Just’a pity the rest couldn’t come. I’d like to see Sam skate.”

 

The boys roar with laughter at the mental image in their heads, and when Clint next turns to the right the library is already behind them.

  
  
  


“Your friends?” Yinsen asks, that small secretive smile tugging at his mouth as always.

 

“Wouldn’t really call them that - I mean, they’re not exactly - my friends,” Tony says. He hopes they haven’t spotted him because he’s wearing his glasses and he looks horrible. “We’ve- I mean, sometimes we- uh, hang out- no-”

 

What he loves about Yinsen is that he waits patiently as Tony struggles to get his tongue to cooperate. Lately he’s found that he panics so very easily whenever the gang comes up in a conversation. Yinsen reaches over and rests his large hand on Tony’s, completely covering it, and Tony presses his forehead to their linked hands to ease his breathing down.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and Yinsen’s hand clenches around his reassuringly. “What I meant to say- the redheaded girl is my History project pairwork partner, and-” he lifts his head to hunch his shoulders a little in a shrug- “they just, I don’t even know.”

 

Yinsen smiles. “Are they being nice to you, Tony? Is that what you don’t even know?”

 

Tony mock scowls. “I can accept nicety when I get it,” he shoots back, and both of them look at each other because they both know it’s not true. After a while Yinsen chuckles.

 

“How are you, Tony?”

 

“Good,” he says. “Finals’ results, but other than that everything’s - pretty much fine.” It’s sorta true, now that he turns it over to inspect in his mind. He’s kinda happy, people are being kinda nice to him, and he kinda has nothing to worry about except his Finals, and Howard during the weekend. This weekend he’s out, thankfully, and Tony has been spending every waking hour either at Natasha’s place (which wasn’t really his choice, it isn’t his fault!) or at the library. Which is great and all, and today is Sunday and it’s nearing 4PM.

 

“Want to borrow anything?” Yinsen asks.

 

Tony nods. “Count to a Trillion? John C. Wright,” he requests, and Yinsen nods and turns back to his computer. Tony doesn’t bring books home, but they still count it as borrowing because then nobody will be able to take a copy while he’s still reading it. Tony just hides it in his Corner and hopes nobody comes near it. Sometimes he saves up enough and Yinsen will let him buy a book for a discount, for his favourite books. Which reminds him…

 

“If I have this friend,” he says, edging closer to the counter, “that I love a lot and, uh, want to give something to as a symbol of gratitude, what do you think I should give?”

 

Yinsen looks at him, his smile twinging a little like he’s trying to frown with his good-natured face. “Whatever makes him happy,” he says with an even tone as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Which it is.

 

“Whatever makes him happy,” Tony repeats. He thinks of Barnes walking past the library, his face alight in the most comfortable smile he’s ever seen. It’s obvious Natasha and Barton took him out somewhere for his birthday. Thinks of Natasha and Clint grinning at each other, faces impossibly close and shoulders touching. Thinks of the gang when they’re around each other in general.

 

Tony thinks that if somebody remembered his birthday, possibly even took him out, that could very likely work in making him happy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang’s backstories :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly shorter chapter this time, sorry :( i could’ve written more but it just seemed like a really REALLY good place to say next chapter heh 
> 
> thank you my loves please leave comments they make my day and my week and my life

“My opinion on Stark?” Thor asks, comically pointing to himself for effect. 

 

They’re sitting in a messy circle around the coffee table, half of them perched on the couch, bean bags, and chairs. The only slice of cake left sits on the coffee table; it’s for Nat’s mum when she comes home tomorrow. 

 

“Yeah, dude,” Clint says. He’s upside down, knees over the back of the couch and body slanting downwards. 

 

“I haven’t thought about that much,” Thor confesses. Nat thinks privately that he looks much better with a proper haircut. Now he looks more human. “I have not had much pleasure or displeasure conversing with him.” 

 

Bucky stretches out on the floor next to Steve. “I think he’s bipolar-ish,” he chips in. “Like, one day he’s all fierce and moody and gives attitude and the other he’s just, y’know, he goes mild. Like what we saw.”

 

“Okay, let’s compare notes,” Nat says, interested now. She sits up and nudges Clint to orientate himself. “Tony came from MIT and transferred here. Why?”

 

Before they started discussing Tony she had been worried Bucky wouldn’t like them to spend the last few hours of his birthday talking about this boy none of them know very well. But now she’s glad he seems to be happy discussing whatever, as long as it’s with them.

 

“It’s related to Hammer,” Bruce pipes up unexpectedly. “Whenever they’re in the Lab together it just- gets awkward.” 

 

“He transferred after his mum died,” Clint says suddenly. Nat’s head snaps up. What the hell? 

 

Clint shrugs sheepishly. “I did my research,” he says. 

 

“Wait, his mum?” Steve asks. “His mum’s dead?”

 

Bruce’s shoulders slump and Nat can tell that Clint and Bruce are both doing vigorous mental facepalms. “Maybe consider things like these before being vicious  _ haters _ ,” she remarks. She has to say, she does get some satisfaction from the way Steve blanches. Mr. I-Hate-Bullies and everything. 

 

“His mum died last year. And then he transferred,” Nat says, listing out the facts. 

 

“How? How did she die?” Bucky asks. Nat feels like they’ve split into two groups; the clueless and the defensive. 

 

“Sickness,” Bruce says.

 

“That’s what the  _ media _ was told,” Clint adds. Nat nods approvingly at him and he beams like a five-year-old. Christ. She shakes her head to hide her fond smile. 

 

“Aye, the news are unable to be trusted,” Thor says. Everyone knows he has an issue with media after they claimed his brother was adopted. It might not look it, but Thor loves his brother. Like, a lot. Sometimes Nat gets tired of him talking about his brother. 

 

Bucky frowns. “What sickness? Is it related to Tony?”

 

“There have been rumours that she was too worried about Tony,” Clint says, and Nat glares at him again because if he was going to do his research he could’ve done it with her! Now she’s behind on the class. “He just got kidnapped (again) and shortly after he was rescued she, uh, passed on.”

 

Sam sighs. “Ok, fine. He’s a poor kid. We shouldn’t pick on him for being rich. But even you guys can’t deny that he’s snobby sometimes. And that he doesn’t like to associate himself with us.”

 

“Whatever you want to do with this new information, don’t push him,” Nat says, because that’s what she’d wanted to say from the start. “Don’t push him, because he cracks under pressure. He cracks severely.”

 

There’s a few minutes of comfortable silence as everyone processes this. Steve looks stricken and he tilts his head to look at the ceiling like praying to atone for his crimes. Bucky doesn’t visibly react, but Nat knows he’s thinking. Bucky has lost, too, and she thinks he can sympathise with Tony. 

 

She’s the only one that knows this, but Bucky actually really hates Howard Stark because he’s a rotten person. His dad used to work under Howard and he’d hated his job with passion. That was, before he lost his dad. 

 

She sighs, leans back. It’s true. They’re all broken pieces in some way or other, and she’s immensely grateful, that they all slot together seamlessly. It doesn’t look like it, but each and everyone of them have lost in the past and, well, found their little impromptu family. 

 

Steve and Bucky both lost their dads to a terrorist attack in the UK while on a business trip. It’s part of the reason why they’re so close. Steve stayed home that day but Bucky’s dad brought him along and it was how he lost his arm. Privately, Nat’s thankful it wasn’t more that he lost. Like, she doesn’t know, his  _ life _ . Steve’s been working odd jobs ever since to support his mother and make ends meet. Thankfully for him he got a sports scholarship into a school where he isn’t constantly picked on for always scraping at the bottom of his wallet. Now he only needs to take one part time job outside of school. Bucky doesn’t have the same financial problem, but he still gets nightmares about it and people think he’s an assassin because of his death glares and angry-looking pure-metal arm. The arm hurts him sometimes, they all know, even if he doesn’t voice it. 

 

Bruce has a father, but a horrible one. His mother isn’t particularly close to him but she does take him out sometimes. Bruce’s father drinks obsessively and sometimes he shoves them around to get them out of his way. He’s also totally not interested in anything Bruce does. His mother is busy, being the only breadwinner for their family, earning money just to have Brian Banner spend it in illegal betting pools and triple beer shots. For Thor, Bruce told them that he gets calls from Thor in the middle of the night. Thor likes to act tough, but he is worried sick about his little brother and whenever he doesn’t come home, it’s a pull on his mental health. Thor used to get mocked for being clumsy too, and sometimes he thinks that the only reason people are nice to him is because his father could file a lawsuit at a moment’s notice. 

 

Sam met Clint running away from foster care, and now he lives with Bucky and Steve. They function well together, but Nat remembers Buck telling her once that Sam’s father threw him out for being bisexual. And that the kids at the orphanage weren’t exactly nice to him because of his skin colour. Which, really, is all kinds of not fun. 

 

And Clint and Nat. Well, Clint and Nat’s stories pretty much speak for themselves. 

 

Nat thinks they’re all lucky to have each other.

 

Thor snores loudly and everyone jumps. Steve huffs out a chuckle, shifting back to sit on his ass instead of kneeling. “Well, that’s our cue then,” he says. “Great day, everyone.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, shy smile twisting his lips. “Thanks, y’all.”

 

Nat falls asleep with a smile on her face that night, wedged between Thor’s massive bulk and the back of the sofa, face pressed against Clint’s shoulder. She falls asleep thinking about that little inner speech she had while she was considering all of their pasts, and she can see that fitting Tony’s story (which he probably has) in there wouldn’t feel unordinary.

 

When she dreams, she dreams that she’s running in a wide, open field of grass. The grass tickles her calves as she runs. When she looks back, Tony’s behind her. She stops to wait for him and he’s running to catch up but it doesn’t seem to work and he’s getting farther and farther until she can’t see him and she’s reaching out, turning back to look for him but suddenly she trips and she’s falling- falling and her heart is thudding hard in her chest and when she hits the ground she wakes up. 

  
  
  
  


Tony dreams, too. He dreams of fire and blood and screaming. He dreams of his Mama’s beautiful golden-amber eyes looking at him, lifeless. He dreams of crushing pain on his chest and howling as his ribs are crunched like aluminium under the pressure. Then abruptly the scene changes and he dreams of Howard reaching towards him, fingers clenched into a claw-shape and closing around his throat. He feels his larynx working, trapped as he struggles to breathe. He dreams of someone coming in behind Howard and just watching as he gets the life choked out of him. Lots of someones, so many someones. Tony wants to die from the sheer amount of people gathered around. He spots Hammer (no surprise there), sees Pep and Rhodey (here he gags and bucks against Howard), sees the gang of popular kids in his school. When his eyes glaze across the too-familiar face of Matt he blacks out and when he wakes up, he curls into a ball to cry because he wishes it were just a dream. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finals results are out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i have no idea when y’all Americans usually have your Finals but tHiS iS S.H.I.E.L.D. oKay so they have their finals in March 👌🏼 
> 
> for us Singaporeans our year is like, term 1, march holidays, term 2, june holidays, term 3, september holidays, term 4, nov/dec holidays

It’s the 18th of March, one whole week after Bucky’s birthday. Tony wants to laugh; he’s counting his days by events he wasn’t invited to. Or politely disinvited to. Okay, maybe they tried to re-invite him, but he wasn’t supposed to go anyway. He’d just have made Bucky’s special day miserable. 

 

Mrs. Verton’s shrewd gaze passes over him and he shivers a little, hunching in on himself and trying not to focus on the thick stack of papers she’s holding in the crook of her elbow. He tries to imagine his paper, thinks of all the answers he’d submitted almost three weeks ago, and fails to get a glimpse of how he will have done. Language has never really been too hard for him, but not too easy either. A low A isn’t good and really, anything could happen. Anything that spells doom.

 

The papers are being handed out by register, and Tony resolutely doesn’t look as each of his classmates walk past him. Hammer hisses something at him, but it’s under his breath so he doesn’t catch it. Maybe that’s for the better, too.

 

“Mr. Stark?” 

 

Tony doesn’t like being called Mr. Stark. Howard’s always told him that he isn’t fit to be a Stark, and even if he were, nobody would want to acknowledge it because he cries too much. He guesses it’s true. He remembers staring at TV screens when he were younger watching businessmen and politicians because he’d desperately wanted to live up to his father’s expectations. Now he… still does, but maybe he’s too tired to try. 

 

Even with his stomach twisting into knots at the thought of a low A or even a B, Tony doesn’t believe in all that nonsense where people completely put off looking at their test paper and just completely try to ignore everything. It won’t help. So once he sits back down he flips the paper over and almost immediately his heart sinks into the base of his rib cage. Mrs. Verton is saying something about how the paper was difficult and getting an A is an amazing job already, but Tony can’t really process that. Good results are good results. Bad results are bad results. He swallows thickly and stares at the table resolutely. Around him he can hear groans and shouting and someone running around screaming in insufferable delight, so he tunes out and narrows his field of vision down to a spot on the table, his ears buzzing as he fights down the panic with no small amount of effort.

 

Mrs. Verton explains the key points of the passage they were analysing and how they could’ve done better. Tony watches blankly, mind churning. He doesn’t understand. He studied really hard for Language because it’s somewhat relative, not surefire subjects like Math and Physics. Why is he doing so badly? Tony doesn’t understand.

 

When class ends Tony's relieved, because he’s suddenly very, very tired. He contemplates falling asleep in the Lab to let the bell wake him up, but decides against it because Hammer can find him there. So he wanders idly out of the class and makes his way to the grass field.

  
  
  
  


“Hell yeah I did goooooood,” Sam is still singing happily as they make their merry walk-of-glory way into the cafeteria. One glance at them and the whole school can tell they they’re happy - more than happy, thank you very much, with their Finals. Clint missed A by two marks but he’s still really glad because the paper was hard as fuck, dammit!

 

Nat greets them with a smile that reaches her eyes and Clint hugs her because her hard work paid off after all. She hugs back, and just how much he loves her suddenly strikes Clint. Perks of being in a good mood. “I got an A,” she breathes into his ear and he tightens his arms minutely.

 

“Lost it by 2 marks,” he says but she can detect the joviality in his tone and smirks, punching him in the arm lightly. 

 

“Good job,” she says, and she probably meant it to come off as sarcastic but he hears the sincerity and grins at her fondly. 

 

“We all did good,” he says, because it’s the truth. Steve kept bemoaning that he could do better but it’s obvious he’s quite pleased with his barely-scraped A (he had to fight for that one mark with his teacher). Bruce doesn’t care about Language, but he got higher than he expected. Thor’s Language has always been good and everyone else got bottomline As. Which Clint is still salty about. Because Sam sucks at English, dude!

 

Today is a good day, Clint thinks as he follows Nat out into the courtyard. Steve is talking with his football buddies. Their season is just over and Clint knows Steve isn’t very happy with their results. Nat clicks her tongue softly under her breath and Clint follows her gaze to see Tony Stark sitting on the steps leading up to the main block, head tilted to the side, staring at a piece of paper and wearing his glasses. They’re too big for him, and Clint wonders how they manage to stay on his nose. Stark’s hair sticks up on one side like he’s been sleeping on his table (he probably has) and his too-large hoodie makes him look smaller than he already is, sitting alone on the steps. Clint watches his tongue poke out from between his teeth as he scribbles on the paper. After a while he puffs out his cheeks and lets out a long, drawn-out breath, then leans back to lie down on the stairs. It must be uncomfortable, Clint thinks, lying down on the stairs. Tony winces and sits back up immediately as if confirming his point.

 

“Did he do well?” Nat asks and Clint shrugs because he honestly cannot tell. He doesn’t know if Stark is doing it intentionally or not, but he’s so hard to read even when he’s openly showing expression. Like now. He’s obviously confused, but Clint has no idea whether it’s a perplexed, wondering kind of confused or an frustrated kind of confused. Nat sighs, letting air out through her teeth. “He looks so sad all the time,” she says almost mournfully. 

 

They watch Stark keep scribbling and thinking for a while more before someone else comes to sit down next to him. Their knees touch and they’ve obviously known each other for a long time, because the guy - Matthew, Clint thinks his name is - slings a casual arm around Stark’s shoulders and Stark doesn’t react, responding to his smiling questions without tearing his eyes from his project in single-minded focus. 

 

“He’ll be fine,” Nat murmurs. 

  
  
  
  


Tony is home late today. Normally he comes home between 6:30 and 7, but today it’s nearing eight o’ clock when he climbs onto the shed roof to clamber into his room. Tony’s head is spinning with regret. He shouldn’t have been to the library last Sunday; he could have done some more revision. He did well for his Advanced Math and Advanced Physics as always, and surprisingly okay for his Geography essay. Low As for Language, Biology and Chemistry and a B, an actual B, for Economics. He’s always been bad at that but he tried, he tried so hard. 

 

Curling up as tightly as possible, Tony falls into his bed and stays there, staring at the wall. It’s a good four minutes before he pulls himself up because he’s about to fall asleep, then goes back to his table to find the formula sheet he’d been working on. Dum-E’s code isn’t perfect, he’s a learning AI, and Tony hates to have to tweak with him, so he’s writing an instruction manual of sorts in case somebody mistreats him. He actually doesn’t know how it’s for, but Howard doesn’t know about Dum-E so Howard can’t exactly say explicitly that he’s not allowed to do that. It’s cowardly, and the work of a liar, he knows, but he… really loves Dum-E and it’s the least he could do.

 

He stays in his favourite working headspace for a couple more hours, moving on to the logistics of his tracking device after Dum-E’s instruction manual is completed. It’s for a community project that’s compulsory for all the kids in school (if not Howard wouldn’t have allowed him to do it) and he’s working on a device that can monitor condition as well as location without sending out a radiation signal that’s potentially harmful to the user over time. It’s going great, if he does say so himself. That is, until the front door opens downstairs with an ominous click. 

 

Tony pushes his chair away from the table and glances at the clock by his bed. It’s almost eleven; Howard is back really late. That doesn’t do anything to improve his mood. He reaches over the back of his chair to grip the spine of his report folder tightly, rubbing experimentally along the spine, considering whether it’s okay to risk Howard’s temper at his results today or risk Howard’s temper at not telling him as soon as possible tomorrow. 

 

“Boy,” Howard calls, his voice carrying up the stairs, and Tony’s heart twitches a little in his chest. Waves of fear so intense it’s almost painful are pulsing through his bloodstream rhythmically. It’s usually much worse when Howard calls him ‘boy’ instead of his birth name. Once when Tony’d shyly pointed out that all his friends called him ‘Tony’, Howard had rolled his eyes and Mama had flicked him on the shoulder in quiet reprimand. “Let him be called whatever he wants,” she’d said, to which Howard’s response had been “I gave him a nice, mature name for a reason.”

 

“Come down,” Howard yells, and Tony scrambles to his feet, taking a split second to decide if he wants to bring his report folder or not. He snatches it on his way out, feeling uncharacteristically resigned. Normally, being timid as he is, he likes to try and postpone his punishment, especially if the next day is a school day, but whatever. He doesn’t want to go to school tomorrow anyway, he’s feeling more tired than he has ever been in a long time. Might as well get it over and done with. 

 

He’s too slow in coming down the stairs, because Howard shouts out another irritated “Anthony!” Quickly he runs to the dining room, slowing to a brisk walk before entering because no running in the house like a disgraceful two-year-old. 

 

Howard’s gaze passes over the folder clenched tightly in his hand. “Your Finals?” he asks, brow furrowed. Tony nods tentatively, shifting his weight subtly from one foot to the other. His father gestures vaguely in the direction of the dinner table and Tony sits down, carefully placing his folder on the table, not out of Howard’s reach. His heart catches in his throat when Howard, without warning, reaches for it and flips it open immediately. 

 

Tony can see Howard’s gaze passing over each letter grade before it lifts to catch his eyes. “Did you study hard, Anthony?”

 

Did he? Tony swallows, and the sound is so loud he’s sure Howard must have heard it. “Yes, sir,” he answers, because it’s the truth (to him) and because he’d rather Howard call him useless than saying he didn’t put in effort because he did. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next year.”

 

Will there be a next year? Tony waits. Howard won’t hit him in the dining room because it’s where he usually meets his guests and if blood lands somewhere it might get discovered. At least, that’s what Tony hopes. He fidgets a little in his seat, skin suddenly crawling. 

 

“Okay then,” Howard says, dropping the folder on the seat next to him dismissively. “I bought takeout today,” he adds, and Tony watches, trying hard not to gape, as he lifts a bag full of food onto the table. “Japanese because that Thai mixed rice restaurant doesn’t have takeout on weekdays, apparently,” and he’s scowling, and that’s more like the Howard Tony knows. What’s going on? He grips handfuls of the material beneath him; he knows that he’s probably sweating bullets and that his eyes are as wide as dinner plates. Howard calmly places the food on the table and stands up to head to the kitchen, whistling under his breath while rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up. 

 

Tony stays stone-still, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Natasha receives a call from an unknown number as she eases Clint’s car into a parking lot. She flicks her hair out of her face and pulls the phone to her ear, completely ready to immediately hang up if needed.

 

“Hello? It’s Natasha.”

 

“Hi Natasha,” the voice on the other end of the line is civil enough. “You can call me Pepper, and I need to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t really like this chapter ehhhhh it feels like the pace is very rushed 
> 
> but enjoy! :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry ;-;  
> 。・°°・(＞_＜)・°°・。

“Who are you?” Nat asks, nodding at Clint as he makes a confused face at her from where he’s standing on the front steps.

 

“I work for Tony’s father,” Pepper says. Her voice is firm and threaded through with authority. Nat approves; she also notes how she says ‘Tony’ and not ‘Mr. Stark’ or anything.

 

“And… how can I help you?” she prompts. Clint is still making the confused face so once she enters the auditorium she slides a piece of paper and scrawls “it’s about Tony” over it. Clint’s eyes widen comically and he walks around like he doesn’t know what to do with himself until he finally settles down in the chair next to her. The rehearsals she came here for don’t start until 10 minutes earlier, and she says as much to the person on the other side of the line.

 

A beat of silence before Pepper says, “Oh, that’s alright. So, how do you know Tony?”

 

“How did you get my number?” Nat asks because maybe she’s paranoid. Maybe it’s just Howard doing background checks on people whose contacts Tony has in his phone- Tony doesn’t have her number in his phone, Nat realises.

 

“Semantics,” Pepper says shortly, and something crawls up Natasha’s spine. The fuck? she wants to say, but then again it might not be good to piss off someone so powerful. “How do you know Tony? He mentioned your name, and we did a check in your school.”

 

“We?” she prompts, and Pepper clicks her tongue as a sign of warning.

 

“I’m the one asking questions here,” she says, voice steely calm. “How do you know Tony?”

 

“I’m working with him for our History essay,” Natasha says. “I - don’t know him very well.” Pepper waits, or maybe she’s digesting this, and Nat adds something in quickly. “I like him.”

 

Clint frowns, features twisting like he’s not sure what facial expression he should settle on.

 

“You do?”

 

“I do.” Natasha says confidently.

 

Pepper considers this for a while; Nat can hear her stilted breathing from the other end of the line. “OK Natasha,” she says after a while. “I need you to do something for me. I understand if you don’t want to because you don’t trust me-” her tone is flippant, as if she can just pick anyone off the streets to do her bidding - “but I implore that you don’t tell anyone. Not even Clint.” Nat’s eyebrows go up immediately. In the corner of her vision she sees Clint hovering. Maybe Pepper meant it to sound casual, and maybe she meant it as a threat. But Nat will be damned if she lets this woman come near Clint.

 

“I won’t tell,” she says, locking her gaze with Clint’s.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Tony wakes up slowly, not to the harsh beckoning of his biological body clock, the sudden jolt from a particularly miserable nightmare or to the loud slamming of the door downstairs. It takes a while before he regains his bearings and he turns over blearily, still mumbling.

 

Maybe it’s a miracle, and maybe hope is too thin for him to cling to, but Tony thinks this might actually be a thing. Howard hasn’t given him a disappointed look all week, and Tony can hear him moving around downstairs, talking on the phone with Mr. Obie, which means Howard A) knows he’s home B) knows he’s sleeping C) knows he didn’t go to school and D) didn’t do anything with all this information. He shouldn’t be sleeping; that’s the most blatant act of slacking that’s ever existed. He should be in school, everybody knows education is the key to becoming a useful person to his father, which is Tony’s personal goal in life.

 

Howard should’ve at least woken him up.

 

Untangling himself from his sheets and keeping his movements deliberately slow (for no good reason, really), Tony glances at the clock as he stands up. His joints are sore, but not the harsh, aching kind of sore, more like the delightful feeling of a good night’s sleep. It’s the 22nd of March. If he remembers correctly, he did go to school yesterday and the day before. The day before was when Howard started… being nice, he thinks, are the words for it. Okay. He can deal with this.

 

He crosses silently into his bathroom and stares at his reflection for two minutes, mind blanked out in a peaceful clean-slate state of mind. His eyes are bright and the circles around them have faded to a paler grey instead of angry purple and red. Tony thinks he actually looks acceptable. Like, acceptable to the point where people will stop looking at him and asking if he’s drunk.

 

Being drunk must be really bad, he thinks.

 

He goes downstairs, somewhat tentatively in case Howard didn’t even notice he was home, but Howard merely tosses a glance at him and goes right on to talking. Tony nibbles on his lip, nervously, not sure how to react. He settles for a quiet “hello, sir” and crosses into the kitchen. There’s no food on the tables and nothing seems to be cooking, so Tony digs around in the fridge for some untoasted toast as he hears Howard end the call. Heavy footsteps that sound too familiar are sounding, coming towards him, and Tony swallows as he withdraws his head from the fridge, a carton of eggs clutched in his hand. He’s very aware of how vulnerable this position of kneeling on the kitchen floor is.

 

“Can I have some?” Howard says, chin jerking toward the eggs. Tony’s throat is dry, but he manages to return a nod and lets his gaze flit downwards. He thinks he knows what this is about. It’s a test.

 

He can deal with that too.

 

He carries the ingredients to the stove, keeping a careful watch on Howard from the edges of his vision. Howard is sitting in the chair, frame slanted downwards in perfect relaxation. He’s focused on the phone in his hands, head bowed in quiet meditation and muttering under his breath.

 

Twenty minutes later finds them sitting around the too-big dining table, Howard tucking into the bacon and eggs without comment. Tony fidgets, his plate untouched. Howard hasn’t said anything, which could be a good or bad thing.

 

“Do you have something to say, Anthony?” Howard asks abruptly. Tony barely restrain himself from jumping a foot into the air.

 

“Why-” he starts to say, then bites down on his lip. That’s rude. “Do you- is the food okay?”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Howard answers dismissively.

 

He said thanks! Tony’s heart jumps a little in excitement or relief, he doesn’t know. Both are good.

 

Why are you being nice? “Is there anything special going on?” he asks cautiously.

 

Howard looks at him funnily. “I don’t know, you tell me,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. Tony hesitates, twisting his hands in his shirt. “Eat,” Howard orders and Tony hastens to obey.

 

The silence is intense. Tony thinks he likes this agreeable Howard, but at the same time he wishes he’s anywhere but here because while normally Howard would say something negative at least it wasn’t awkward. He doesn’t know what’s worse; that he prefers the angry, perpetual-scowl Howard.  

 

Finally he hears his father chuckle a little. “Your birthday, Anthony,” he says slowly, like talking to a spooked animal. “29th March, right?”

 

Tony can feel his heart thudding to the bottom of his ribcage, where it continues to pound shakily. He reaches down with mental hands to pull it back up. At least he remembered the date. And the first letter of the month. It’s pretty damn close. At least he thought of my birthday.

 

It’s stupid, and Tony is selfish, but it isn’t enough because to his horror he feels pressure on his eyes and he stands up abruptly.

 

“Anthony?”

 

He’ll probably be a disappointment if he is rude, but even more if he cries. Tony struggles to link it in his mind. The appropriate response is gratitude.

 

“Thank- thank you,” he chokes out then he’s fleeing. For a moment his vision turns dark and he looks around blindly. The black spots clear for him to find that he’s in the living room and he quickly runs up the stairs, barely catching himself to avoid tripping.

 

“You’re welcome!” Howard calls. He doesn’t sound angry.

 

Maybe that’s why Tony’s running away after all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t have any excuses ;-;
> 
> i’ve just been stressed, is all. also i realise that i’m really really lucky to have you guys because some people post and they don’t get a lot of positive feedback. so thank you for sticking around.
> 
> i’ve been reading a lot of stephen king lately. as you know, he’s the master of horror.
> 
> p.s. friendly reminder that i’m never abandoning this fic, no matter how long you guys have to wait for an update.
> 
> i love you :)

“No,” Natasha says, mostly to herself. “No, it’s not true. I’m sure of it.”

 

“Do you think that I haven’t-”

 

“No,” she says, fiercely now, anger creasing her forehead. “It’s not true. I know what it’s like.” She pauses. She may have given away too much about herself. “But that’s not it. It isn’t true, Pepper, Miss.”

 

“Just Pepper,” the woman says, like she needs to say something but hasn’t decided on what so she’s choosing to respond to the easiest thing.

 

“Tony acts strange. I’ll give you that. But he’s not - hurt in that way. I’m sure.” For some reason this stranger on the other end of the line is making her talk a lot more than she intended.

 

“You think I’m not sure?” For the first time, the collected voice starts to tremble in agitation. Natasha waits patiently as Pepper takes a breath and lets it out with a drawn-out sigh. “Look. I don’t have proof. I don’t expect you to believe me. But I need your help in eradicating the possibility.”

 

Nat purses her lips. She already knows what her answer is going to be. After all, she’s a hoarder of information, except that it doesn’t get invested in gossip that opens wounds around the whole school. Information, she likes to keep for herself.

 

“If you don’t have proof, how did you find out in the first place?” she asks.

 

“I didn’t-” Another sigh. “My boyfriend. Came up with it. Tony stayed over. He.. displayed abnormal signs.”

 

“What-”

 

“Other than the obvious physical damage, he panicked when we mentioned his father. To the point where he felt cornered enough to attempt to flee by jumping from a second-storey window.”

 

Nat’s already arranged an argument in the back of her throat, but now it shrivels up into a weak little leaf and dies. She waits for Pepper to continue, forcing away the shock, heartbeat thrumming in her ears uneasily. “Well, you don’t know it was his father…?” she says finally. Even to her it sounds weak.

 

“Will you help us?” Pepper says, breezing past her, like she’s been waiting for Nat to reply so she can interrupt.

 

“Yeah. I guess I will.”

 

Pepper sounds genuinely relieved. “I’m glad to hear that. Really glad. We could really use your help.”

 

I bet, Nat thinks. “What do I have to do?”

  
  
  
  
  


When Tony looks up, his back and shoulder muscles are throbbing, a sharp reminder to get his posture right. When he squints, spots dance in front of his eyes for a good ten seconds, fading into dull buzzing grey before clear vision returns. Damn. Kicking his legs out, he spares a quick glance at the transparent workshop doors and stretches in the chair.

 

The best word to describe Tony’s situation would be thriving. Tony is thriving in the workshop like he’s known it all his life. He still really can’t believe that his father gave him permission to come in because the last time he did he’d messed up and ended up in the cupboard for four hours.

 

The time now is almost eleven. Tony’s been working for over 6 hours, and nobody has come in. He remembers the conservation he’d had with Howard - his father, he can call him that, he thinks, almost giddy with excitement. Howard’d come upstairs and asked, “It’s really your birthday this week, isn’t it?”

 

Tony’d said “yes”. He remembers how Howard nodded, all business-like and pleasant.

 

“I’m going to take a nap; there’s a Gala later. What are you going to do?”

 

Tony’d been stunned (is still stunned). In all his sixteen years Howard has never asked him that. (Well, fifteen years, but almost-sixteen.)

 

“You don’t know? Well, you can go in the Lab, I guess. Work on whatever you want to. But just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean that you don’t have to pass me those updates by this week.”

 

Tony had mumbled something along the lines of having already finished the updates. Howard had laughed. Howard doesn’t laugh much.

 

“Then go play.”

 

Tony doesn’t know if he feels bad or not for lying about his birthday. It’s harmless. His birthday is this year. Well, yeah. And fact that Howard even remembered says something, right? Also, now that he thinks about it, Howard must have already gone out. He didn’t even notice.

 

He knows Howard is being nice because it’s going to be his birthday soon. For some reason, Howard’s always been very particular about birthdays. Tony doesn’t really see much to celebrate about being born; it happens in the world everyday. But he remembers when Howard used to host extravagant birthday parties and when his parents would go out for a sweetly romantic dinner or something on his Mama’s birthday because she doesn’t like parties. Whatever happens afterward, he sure as heck is going to try his best not to disappoint him anymore, because this really says something - that Howard can be genial and… supportive, maybe? when Tony doesn’t screw up.

 

He’s feeling much better now about lying, because if he’d admitted Howard’s mistake that would have been awkward. His father doesn’t like to be wrong. Nobody does. Tony doesn’t, well. It’s logical.

 

Whatever. Even if he has to change his birthday to two months earlier, it’s not like anyone needs to know. The only people that even care to recall his birthday - there aren’t really any people who care to remember, he thinks, half-bitterly and half-amusedly. It’s kind of depressing, but he doesn’t really get affected by birthdays. Funny how everything else affects him though.

 

He’s already heading to bed before he realises it, and as he sits down his head spins a little at the thought of Dum-E coming to stay. At home. Just the idea makes his heart fill with warmth that threatens to spill over. He can’t help but let a wide grin break out on his face as he flops down on the bed. Dum-E would be so curious, he thinks, he’d look at everything before deciding where he liked most. Tony hopes it’s his room. Or something. Just not the Lab, because he doesn’t know if this is a one-time thing, being allowed in the Lab. Before he knows it he’s asleep.

 

For the first time in too long, Tony dreams happy dreams.

  
  
  
  


“You don’t think everyone’s been actin’ weird lately?” Bucky asks.

 

Clint purses his lips, looking across the classroom where Nat and Tony are sitting, heads together. Clint can see Nat’s profile, her creased forehead and the adorable way she’s nibbling on the inside of her cheek as always. Tony’s back is to him, head resting on his folded arms. It looks like he’s sleeping.

 

“Think something’s happening with their History?” he says, lowering his volume further as Ms. Hill throws them a warning glance. “Nat’s been strange. This week, at least.”

 

“Since when?” Bucky asks, and Clint pauses for a moment. He doesn’t really have a definitive way to explain anything.

 

“Since a little after your birthday?” If he has to guess.

 

Bucky nods thoughtfully. “Stevie says Nat is investigating. Wouldn’t wanna get in the way of that.” Natasha has her tells when she starts investigating. Clint knows she likes to pretend it’s not the case, but she is fiercely prideful of her investigating abilities and she tends to go all dark and moody during investigations. But that’s not the case here; she has been out at weird hours and he’s caught her staring at Tony a lot - okay he’s not jealous, just to make that clear - and she hasn’t snapped at him (more than usual) lately. Either she’s in a surprisingly good mood during an investigation, or it’s just a, y’know, casual curiousity, not a full-on investigation.

 

Man, what a weird world Clint lives in.

 

“It’s about Stark, too,” Bucky mutters, throwing his arms back to stretch. Ms. Hill looks up sharply - movement catches the eye - and Clint lowers his head to pretend he’s doing work. Whenever they get paired together for any project work the two of them just muddle around until a few days before the deadline. After all, that’s when they’re most productive. “Dunno what’s gotten her so excited ‘bout him, yeah, he’s not a dick after all - what else?”

 

“Maybe she feels bad,” Clint says. He knows it sounds strange. Natasha doesn’t feel ‘bad’. She feels angry (more than he would like) and affectionate (rarely) and indifferent (most of the time).

 

“Maybe she thinks he gives the stray cat vibes.” Bucky says, and Clint is shocked that he didn’t see it sooner. Nat doesn’t collect strays, she just feels a strange empathy towards them. She likes talking to adorable kids too. Okay. He guesses that makes sense. Is Stark a stray? Well, he looks like one. He doesn’t know.

 

“I’m adorable, too,” he says, just to be obnoxious, jutting out his lower lip in a mock pout. Bucky cringes and turns his head away, groaning.

 

“Y’keep that up and you g’nna be homeless,” he jokes.

 

“Technically, the apartment is mine,” Clint begins.

 

“But in all other ways, it’s hers,” Bucky finishes. Clint heaves a sigh because it’s true.

 

What can he say - he loves his weird, weird girlfriend.

  
  
  
  


Tony’s been in the Lab the whole day.

 

He stretches out, feeling some strange - tired yet satisfied - emotion surge up within him, tugging at his heartstrings. He spends a few moments staring into space trying to identify the feeling, then stands up, stretches again and hears his joints cracking. Sounds painful, but delightful. Tony feels he’s getting stranger by the minute.

 

He never thought this thought would occur to him, but he’d rather Howard stay home. Tomorrow is his ‘birthday’, 29th March, and they could do something - maybe watch a movie, go out for lunch? Tony can feel his heartbeat accelerate just thinking of the idea. What would they both enjoy? Maybe Howard could take him somewhere cool, let him do whatever he want. Or they could work in the Lab together.

 

Heart squeezing in anticipation, Tony cleans up and falls into bed. He’s wearier than he thought, and he drifts off quickly.

  


A blurry image comes into focus before him, and he blinks to get the threads of sleep out of his vision, even if he knows it’s just a dream. He remembers; it’s his mother is sitting on one of the benches by the river Thames in London, her dressing casual for once - a yellow blouse and grey ripped jeans. It’s colder than America, but she still has a large sunhat poised on her head.

 

“How’s it coming along, Antonio?” she asks almost absently. Tony watches her gaze flicker, following the rolling water.

 

“Pretty good, Mamma.” For some reason he doesn’t take a seat beside her. He finds he has no control over what his dream-self does.

 

She tilts her head back now, lets the sunlight dance in her eyes, but her expression is contemplative. “And your father?”

 

“I - I don’t know,” Dream Tony says.

 

Mama nods. It all makes sense to her, it always has. Howard’s the IQ, she’s the EQ. “Sit down, Antonio.” And this time he does sit down. “Talk to me, Antonio.” He’s vaguely unsettled by her, now, not calm and breezily confident like she always is but more nervous. Almost like she’s evading something, but he doesn’t know what.

 

“Everything’s great.” He feels himself pause, then “I’m happy, Mamma.”

 

Maria doesn’t say anything, just looks down at her left hand, which is lying in her lap. Her right arm has been thrown over the back of the bench casually but now he can see the tension in her shoulder. “Mamma?” he asks tentatively.

 

“School?” she says, quickly, almost desperately. Tony feels a chill crawling up and down his neck. “Anything going on in school?”

 

She almost reminds him of those patients in the hospital when he went to visit his grand-uncle once. Nervously flitting fingers, questions asked in fear of losing memories. He swallows. “No. I - I’m doing well. Hammer sucks-” Tony would never use that word in front of his Mama, but apparently his dream has other plans - “but I’ve met some new people. They’re - they’re okay with me.”

 

Are they? Why is he telling her this? She wouldn’t know.

 

His Mama frowns, like she didn’t catch any of that. “He’s trying,” she says suddenly. “He’s trying his hardest but he doesn’t know where to start and you’re making it harder.”

 

Tony looks at her. She’s no longer looking at him, or the water, or the sky. Her eyes are glazed. “Mamma, you’re scaring me,” he says quietly. He can hear his heartbeat. It’s just a dream, he wants to say out loud, but he can’t.

 

Her eyes widen a little and his head starts to buzz. The sharp edges of the surroundings - the seat of the bench, the railing, the drop from the walkway down to the river - are blurring out, fuzzy shapes that make no sense. Tony tries to back away but he stays firmly in the chair, next to his Mama.

 

“You’re making it harder, Tony,” he hears her voice even though he can’t see her or her mouth moving. Everything’s a blur now, no colours, just blandly irregular shapes jagging in and out of his vision. Now he does flinch back, his body detached from his mind, and he senses himself standing up and suddenly everything’s falling away - he has the strangest sensation that he’s falling too but he looks down and his feet are on an invisible ground.

 

-she’s never called him tony before-

 

It’s a dream, it’s a dream, the chanting grows louder, buzzing around his eardrums and his senses and everything is blinding white and blood-red like Natasha’s hair and silky yellow like his Mama’s blouse. It’s a dream, it’s a dream - but it’s not, his subconscious struggles to piece together a thought, it’s not like any normal dream - and then suddenly something clicks together and in the back of his mind something dreadful starts to form. He knows, as clear as day, in that moment, that it’s a premonition, a warning. It starts to pool in his stomach and spread through his tingling veins until it flashes before his eyes and -

 

Abruptly he wakes up.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mY PIANO EXAM IS OVER  
> and i forgot to tell you guys  
> but i’m so happi :))))))) also i think i did very bad but i don’t care because it’s OVER

“Anthony,” Howard is saying.

 

Tony’s vision has blurred to a sharp, uneven focus on the edge of his cup. He looks up sharply to meet Howard’s eyes.

 

“Happy birthday,” Howard says, and his eyes are crinkled at the edges, wearing a smile even if his mouth remains a hard line. 

 

“Thank you - sir,” he says quietly, happiness bleeding slowly into his veins and spreading to create a strange, warm tingling sensation around him, uncomfortably unfamiliar. His stomach feels cold, however, chilled from the nightmare that has settled in the bottom of his gut like dissolved powder. He doesn’t know if it’s a good or bad thing, and there are a frightening  _ lot _ of things he doesn’t know lately.

 

“It  _ is  _ your birthday, isn’t it?” Howard asks. He’s frowning a little.

 

“Yes sir,” Tony says, maybe a bit too quickly and a bit too untruthfully, but Howard doesn’t say much else. Suddenly Tony feels very, very tired, haggard, almost, like there’s too much on his shoulders, narrow as they are.

 

“Do you want to do anything?” Howard asks, raising a suggestive eyebrow. Tony swallows down the recognition that of course his father wouldn’t know what he normally did and has no idea where to bring him. He debates silently, rolling the possible answers around on his tongue. “Not really, I’m tired” doesn’t go well, just makes him seem like an ungrateful, lazy brat, if Howard doesn’t already think so. His second option - he doesn’t have a second option, actually. He has no idea what to do for his ‘birthday’.

 

Tony is already raising his shoulders before he remembers shrugging is rude and puts them down slowly. “I’m not very sure,” he says.

 

“Spend it with your friends?” Howard suggests. Tony fights down the urge to laugh. He doesn’t exactly have any, and if he did they’d just feel bad for not remembering or not getting him anything. He has to realise that he really doesn’t have anything to do on his birthday.

 

“It’s - secret,” he blurts before his common sense can even stir.

 

Thankfully, Howard doesn’t get mad. He just nods and sits back, chewing thoughtfully.

 

And so Tony has the rest of the day to wander around town. Amazing. After breakfast he walks out and stands still, staring. It’s swelteringly hot outside and after a moment’s blank staring he makes his way to the coffee shop. Once he reaches however, he turns tail because it’s too crowded - it’s a Sunday morning and the shop is packed with college students and weary adults alike. Tony scrams for his life and settles down on a park bench. He brought a book, so he settles down to read.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Everyone takes a good long minute to stare. 

 

“We’re right in front of him,” Bucky says cautiously, pressing closer to Clint absently. 

 

Clint tilts his head and watches the boy hunched on the bench, occasionally lifting his hand to jab at his glasses so they don’t slide all the way down his nose. He looks like he’s fallen asleep but in reality his eyelids have just dipped low. Clint can see his eyes moving over the page. He reads fast.

 

“Thankfully Nat isn’t here,” Bucky murmurs. “She’d spook him, I just know it.”

 

Steve’s features twist unpleasantly. “What is her deal with him anyway?” he asks. “Clint, you know what she’s like. What’s she up to?”

 

These people, Clint would trust with his life. But he knows Nat is secretive, and he knows they have their own views, and he does not know what he himself should think about - about Stark. It’s strange, really. Some days he can’t help but feel irritated at whatever he does, because even if it’s unintentional it really does feel like showing off or rubbing it in their faces that he’s much more privileged. But other days he can’t help but - like him. Like listening to him chatter when Bruce is next to him. It’s refreshing, he thinks that’s the word for it, not just for Bruce but for himself, to see someone normally so reserved open up. 

 

And if he doesn’t really know what to think, he doesn’t want to impose anything on the rest of them. So he shrugs loosely and sticks to facts. “She’s being moody actually. Moping around and eating. Eating a lot.”

 

Bucky barks out a laugh and there’s a moment of apprehensive silence as Stark shifts a little, his shoulders jerking. He doesn’t look up, though, and continues to read studiously.

 

“I guess I can’t be angry at him for being smart if he reads like  _ that _ ,” Steve says reflectively after a while. “It ain’t difficult being rich, I guess. Life sucks for everybody.”

 

Feeling rather than seeing Bucky bump shoulders with Steve, Clint glances back at Stark. He’s so small, especially when he wears glasses, because his glasses are huge. Clint can’t help but think that even Nat would be taller than him, and Nat doesn’t like boys taller than her… right?

 

Okay, so maybe it’s completely irrational for Clint to be jealous of the small boy sitting there like he’s the most innocent creature in the world (okay, maybe he has a problem), but let’s just say he’s a little protective of Nat, okay, dammit. She may be the angriest and most irritable and least happy girl out there, but she’s the best to him. Which is sappy. Maybe he’s a little jealous. They’re always together.

 

Nat would laugh at him, he’s sure. 

 

“Let’s go,” Steve is saying, and then they’re leaving and Clint’s mind is still buzzing with the new information that he’s angry at a little kid because he’s jealous. Humiliating, really.

  
  
  
  


The sky is still bright when Tony finishes his book. He looks up and because it’s his lucky day, immediately makes awkward eye contact with a stranger. Flushing, he lets his gaze drift downward and spends a minute staring dismally at the cover of his book. He’s not sure if Howard will be suspicious if he goes home before the sky is even starting to get dark. Howard might be suspicious at anything, really.

 

On the way home he stops by the library to return his book and get a new one, giving Yinsen a brief explanation of the situation (“My Dad thinks it’s my birthday and he’s happy about remembering so I don’t want to make him upset by telling him it actually isn’t - it’s not like anyone else would remember, anyway”) and receiving a mildly admonishing look. “I would,” Yinsen says. Tony is compelled to believe him. “Sometimes I feel like your tan comes from sitting in the sun hiding from your father,” Yinsen jokes. Tony nods. That’s part-truth. The other part comes from travelling in the summer with his Mama, back Before. Yinsen doesn’t know, though, so he doesn’t need to correct him.

 

“I should get going,” he says after a while. His mind is spinning a little, for no reason. He feels like there’s something he should know, but forgot. 

 

Yinsen nods. “Happy birthday,” he says teasingly, and Tony smiles. They both don’t say anything for a while, trying to divert the awkwardness from the extremely forced smile.

 

“I should-” awkward hand movements - “I should get going.” 

 

When he gets home, Howard is nowhere to be seen, so he takes a quick shower. Staring at himself in the mirror he can see where tiny freckles have appeared on the tip of his nose. That’s not good. Tony viciously scrubs at them, to no effect. It’s not like Howard would notice. Tony isn’t even sure if Howard would have a problem with them, but he really doesn’t want to take any chances. It almost feels like life has been going easy on him.

 

He hears the car coming before he can slip into his room, so he towels off his hair quickly and pads out of the room straight into Howard.

 

Tony swallows. Howard was waiting for him, which is never a good thing.

 

There is a strange look on Howard’s face that twists his features - not unpleasantly, just something he’s never seen before. He almost seems hesitant, sitting on the very edge of a chair and raising an eyebrow. His face looks like a frozen mask. 

 

The trepidation is back. It starts to stir uncomfortably in Tony’s stomach. 

 

“Sir?” he says cautiously.

 

“It isn’t really your birthday, is it?” Howard says slowly. He seems to have been deciding which emotion to take on, and settles on frustrated. A little crease comes into existence between his eyebrows. Tony feels a chill on the back of his neck.

 

“It - it is,” he says, and then suddenly realises that he’s done the wrong thing, but Howard is frowning so much now that Tony’s sure saying something else could potentially set him off. He keeps silent. 

 

Howard scoffs. “You’re still lying, boy?”

 

Boy. That’s not a good sign. Tony squares his shoulders and opens his mouth to say he’s sorry, to try and explain himself - but what is there to explain? I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think you got my birthday wrong? I wanted to pretend somebody actually remembered for once? I didn’t want you to be disappointed in yourself? His throat goes dry. 

 

“It isn’t - but that doesn’t matter,” he starts quietly - and flinches back as Howard’s hand jerks up violently in his direction. There is no impact, though, and Tony quickly straightens up again. 

 

“I can’t hear you, boy!” 

 

“It doesn’t matter!” he says, louder now, feeling the too-familiar pressure behind his eyes. It’s been so long since he cried, he thought he was getting better. He truly believed he was getting better - ha, pathetic. He wants to scream. “It doesn’t matter when my birthday is as long as we - uh, as long as we do something - about it?” 

 

Now he’s confused. Howard didn’t even listen to him, from the way it looks. His eyes are steely but his face is still twisted in that strange way. Tony looks down. 

 

“I mean, you remembered, which is good, and I’m happy, so everything’s okay,” he tries again. 

 

“I’m fucking trying, you little freak,” Howard is yelling now, and he’s coming closer and Tony scrambles back, instinctively grabbing at any surface he can find for some leverage. “I thought, hey, maybe we could do something together tonight because it’s your fucking birthday but apparently it’s not and you couldn’t have bothered to tell me?”

 

I didn’t think it mattered, Tony thinks, then clamps his hand over his stupid mouth quickly.

 

“Of course it matters! I was going to find out what the fuck you do with a useless kid for their birthday, and he doesn’t even bother telling me I made a mistake? I had to find out from the fucking web. You were laughing about it, weren’t you? Glad that your old man finally made a mistake?”

 

“I wasn’t,” he says. He’s aware of how defensive he’s being, but he doesn’t have any other option. “It’s the same, it doesn’t matter what the exact date is, as long as we do it together!”

 

“Do it together,” Howard scoffs. “So what did you do today, huh?”

 

Tony keeps quiet. He doesn’t want to answer, because of how pathetic his answer would definitely be. I spent my whole day sitting on a bench reading fiction because I don’t exactly have friends; all of my conversations were with people older than me; I borrowed a new book because I finished the one I had. 

 

“Can we please just… just pretend like it is my birthday…?” he asks. His pulse is thudding away, he can feel it in his temples. Howard’s eyes widen in shocked fury. 

 

“Alright, we fucking will,” he says after a while. Tony backs away again as he takes a step forward. “Get out. Get out and find your friends. Go fucking ahead.”

 

Something hurts inside Tony. Of course. He should have seen it coming. His head aches, his stomach aches. Of course he did the wrong thing. He should’ve told Howard right away, maybe they could have laughed it off and they could be, be happy, if that even is possible. 

 

“I tried, y’know? I thought, Maria wouldn’t want this, I need to stop doing this.” Howard looks at his hands. Tony can see a vein throbbing in his temple and he briefly considers making a run for it befores stamping the thought down. Just a couple weeks of pleasant Howard and he had to ruin it. Now everything’s a mess and he’s just getting worse without discipline, isn’t he?

 

He just wishes Howard hadn’t brought up his Mama. 

 

“And then I was searching for interesting birthday ideas. I thought maybe I’d get food from that steakhouse we went after the honeymoon, when she just got pregnant. And then my fucking useless, ungrateful brat here-” His head whips up so he can glare at Tony, and the pure fire in his eyes hits Tony straight in the chest, hard. His heart throbs a little and his hands are shaking, so he hides them behind his back. “You’re crying. Huh, I should’ve known. You’re just getting more and more useless. I’m done, okay?”

 

Howard abruptly throws his arms out and Tony jerks away, trying to scramble for cover. He feels pressure on his arm and he’s yanked backwards suddenly, his head bouncing off the wall. Unoriented, he struggles to right himself but a sharp flare of pain in his leg gets him to buckle to the ground again. 

 

“Get out, you hear?” Howard is too close for comfort. Tony bites his lip to keep quiet and frantically scrubs at his eyes. Howard is looking down at him with nothing short of pure disgust. He closes his eyes, feels more tears slip out, and hides his face in his hands, but they’re shaking so much he thinks better of it and tries to curl up. 

 

“Get out or I’ll make you!” He’s yelling now, he’s angry. Tony gasps out as a kick connects to his side. “You want me to fucking hit you? Don’t think I’ve gone soft, you fucking brat.”

 

Tony gets on his feet quickly. Howard is right behind him, so he staggers to the door and Howard is right behind him so he tries to go faster but his patience has run out and Howard’s ahnd is closing around his upper arm. Panic rips through his nerves and he struggles for a split second, automatically, before his brain catches up to his limbs and he goes still. Howard merely gives him a hard stare as he drags him to the stairs. Tony pulls himself up and manages to trip down the stairs. Even ground comes too quickly and it’s a surprise when he’s no longer going down and he crashes to the floor, but then it’s no longer the floor it’s cool hard ground and the door slams.

 

Tony flinches hard; his whole body is shaking, trembling like a leaf in wind. He’s cold all over and he’s still reeling, partly in shock, partly in self-disdain. It was going so well, too. He can’t believe it. 

 

He gets slowly to his feet, then flops down on the ground. It isn’t particularly cold, but his heart feels like it’s shrouded in ice. He’s dizzy. 

 

Tony curls up onto his side and takes a moment to hate himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this is a bad chapter like everything really doesn’t sound nice and connected in my mind.
> 
> thanku guys for stickin’ around!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bittersweet times for everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone have some recommendations where i can rest in peace
> 
> is this good enough,,,,
> 
> i mean, i can try to update faster but i'm terrible at my (one) job here - writing - and the more i get into the story the more i get wRITER'S BLOCC but,, , , ,, ,, i don't even know ok i have no excuse but i still lub you guys and please comment to feed my soul
> 
> i think i vented a lot through clint ma boy hehe
> 
> as always, love you all and i appreciate it to no end!!!!! :heart: :heart:

 

“You can’t keep doing this, y’know,” Matt says.

 

Tony stays silent. His right shoulder, which is swollen for no apparent reason, is wedged between himself and the back of the couch. It hurts distantly. He doesn’t pay it any mind. 

 

“Tony?” Matt asks cautiously, coming around the couch to face him. “Tony, how are you feeling?” 

 

“Bad,” Tony answers. He turns his head to the side and lets his cheek rest against the fabric because he doesn’t really want to look at Matt. Even Matt is now treating him like a fragile little thing. He knows he is, but he likes to think he’s a little stronger, even if he knows it’s ridiculous. He’s also insanely tired, even after two hours of a catnap. 

 

Matt gives him another half-minute to decide if he wants to say anything else before sitting down across him gingerly. Tony stares at nothing, idly following the finely stitched lines of the pattern of the couch with his gaze. 

 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Matt repeats.

 

“Being pathetic?” Tony asks. He doesn’t miss Matt’s sharp, irritated exhale and feels guilt twisting in his chest. Matt is literally one of the people that can tolerate him, and he’s just throwing that away so, so casually. “Sorry,” he adds quietly.

 

Matt shakes his head. “Not that. You need to stop fleeing. Yeah, fleeing, because that’s exactly what you’re doing!” Tony hunches a little further in on himself and turns his face so that it’s buried, hidden. “I’m not gonna stop pushing because somebody has to push!”

 

Only when he stops and relaxes his limbs does Tony realise that he’s been unconsciously shuffling backwards on the couch, further from Matt. He stops doing it. “Push for what?” he says. He hates how thin his voice is.

 

“Just, I don’t know, talk to your father?” Matt says. “I get that you don’t have the best relationship - my dad doesn’t talk to me much either-” Tony can see that he’s getting flustered now- “but all you’ve been doing is running away!”

 

He bites his lip, only stopping when he tastes a twinge of metallic blood on his tongue. “I haven’t,” he says, then stops short because how is he supposed to say that it happens so often that even showing up to Matt’s place once a week is just a small percentage. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but really, it isn’t that often when you see the whole thing. Tony’s not sure how to explain this, so he shrugs and shuts his mouth.

 

“I’m not saying you’re not welcome,” Matt says because he’s an amazing person, “I’m just saying - you need to, well, be sure of what you want. You want your father to - notice you? Be proud of you? Just tell him - tell him what the standard is, and that you’re way above it. God knows you are.” Matt sounds bitter. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says miserably. “I can’t talk to him.”

 

“Tony-” Matt heaves a sigh and slumps back onto the couch, as if seeking for support. Tony hates that he’s made him feel this way. “Tony, other than me, do you have any friends in school?”

 

It’s blunt, but that’s the way they’ve been taking to each other since forever. Tony isn’t hurt, just - nervous, of how Matt will react. “No,” he says truthfully.

 

Matt sighs again, throws his hands up loosely in the air. Tony watches them fall back onto his lap, morose, exasperated. He’s too tired for this, but he doesn’t know what he would do if Matt isn’t around to talk to him. “That’s the problem, Tony! Nobody knows what to do with you, you think you have no friends and you think it’s because they don’t like you. That’s not true - you just don’t like reaching out because you just assume that they’ll judge you, or that they’ll be annoyed. Same case with your dad - you think he’s gonna be upset with you, but any decent human would know the normal way to behave!” 

 

Yeah. Ok, yeah. Tony agrees. But he doesn’t have the guts to do it. He doesn’t say anything, just lets his eyes roam over the edge of the coffee table and back again.

 

“You’re considering it, I hope?” Matt says. 

 

“Yes,” Tony answers. It feels like a defeat, but he knows Matt means well. He also knows that he’s considering it, and that he will never do it because he just can’t. It’s like going to the carnival, or squeezing his way through a screaming mass of fangirls, or God forbid, going to one of those huge, flashy parties where glitter is sticking to the walls and the light beams never stay in one place. Just thinking gives Tony a horrible headache.

 

“OK, let’s get you something to eat,” Matt says briskly, and just like that the talk is over. Tony feels grateful, but not really. He uncurls himself and stretches out on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The lights hurt his eyes, so he looks away and waits, turning what Matt just said over and over in his head.

  
  
  
  
  


 

Clint spots Steve sitting on the front porch almost two blocks away, and he sprints the rest of the way to shout across the road to him. “Nat’s mom is coming home tomorrow!”

 

Steve cringes at the volume. “Come in, Clint,” he calls back and turns, not really waiting for him to come over. Once inside, he’s struck by the comfortable homely feeling trapped within the walls of the Rogers’ household. He’s sure that if Sarah weren’t quite so busy, she’d spend her time diligently spreading the feeling even beyond that.

 

“What exactly are we planning?” Steve asks, mussing his hair a little as he flops backward onto the couch messily. It’s a habit of his, but he only does it when he’s excited for something, not when he’s nervous, which is really hella weird in Clint’s opinion. 

 

“Y’know, what we normally do.” Clint makes himself at home, starfishing out on the floor. “Mini-party, just talk, make some food for her.”

 

“You mean, you want me and Buck to make all the food while you guys eat it.”

 

Clint waggles his eyebrows. “Was that voluntary? Why, yes, Steven, that’s what I want. What we all want. Even you, you know it. Deep inside-”

 

“Okay, jeez, I got the message. I’ll get Buck. When and where? We have soccer practice tomorrow.”

 

Clint scrunches his eyebrows together. Soccer practice, of course. “The coffee shop, then? You guys can go straight after, Aunt Alia won’t mind.”

 

“Of course,” Steve grins. “She won’t mind anything.”

 

Clint has no answer, and for a short while they just stay there, Steve sprawled on the couch and Clint sprawled on the floor. There’s this strange song playing in Clint’s head, one of Nat’s favourites, and the only somewhat-meditational one. He’s forgotten the name for it, and he’s pretty sure that if he asked Steve, Steve would remember what it was called, but somehow he doesn’t want to say anything at the moment. He feels strange, fidgety, like there’s something he’s forgetting, and he doesn’t like it because he doesn’t want to screw anything up for Aunt Alia. Well, not just because it’s Nat’s mom, but also that she’s the closest thing to a parent he’s had, which sounds kinda pathetic in his head and probably will sound worse when spoken aloud. He can’t even define what he’s feeling - stressed, or just unrested - not uneasy, unrested. He doesn’t know which is worse. Steve shifts a little on the couch and he lets his gaze drift slowly upwards to see that his friend is looking at him.

 

“Rough couple of days?” Steve asks gently.

 

He knows it’s irrational but sometimes he can’t help but feel irritated at his friends for things they can’t control. He knows, knows with absolute clarity that Steve’s intention is to help, his intention is always to help, but sometimes he doesn’t need his help. Nat helps, she really does, and so do they, really, but on days like this when he’s unsure and wandering around in his own head, he - well, he hasn’t found a cure. Doesn’t help that Nat’s gone into investigator mode and is hoarding all the snacks.

 

“You could say that, yeah,” he says because Steve, at the end of it all, is always trying to help.

 

“You OK? Can I do anything?” 

 

Again the mild twinge of irrational annoyance - Steve won’t achieve anything by asking ‘are you okay” but he still does it, offers to help even when he knows he can’t do anything. It’s unfair. Clint thinks he needs to be alone for a while, he doesn't know what’s happening to him lately, and he voices this out to Steve.

 

“You sure? You hate being alone,” Steve says. “Want me to get Buck?”

 

“No,” Clint says, and he’s sure. He gets up and goes out the door. Steve calls out a “bye” after him and when he doesn’t say anything in return, he knows Steve won’t hold it against him. The only thing that seems to be anchoring him nowadays is Nat, and she isn’t really - she’s helpful, by God she is, but he doesn’t want to bother her too much either. So Clint sits down, and he thinks by himself for a while, knowing there won’t be much of a conclusion to his thoughts.

 

Nat finds him just after the sun has set and wordlessly, she takes him to a very late dinner. They don’t make much conversation, but Nat’s weight pressed against his own is comforting. It’s been a while since they’ve had a date like this, and at the end of it Nat curls her fingers around his and says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Clint says blearily.

 

“I know,” she says, and grins cheekily at him. “Still, I am.”

 

They talk a while more, and then they go home and they fall asleep together and all is well. It’s just one of those days for Clint, and he’s thankful the day is over.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi

Howard’s been ignoring Tony the whole week. He’s really not sure if it’s a good or bad thing. On one hand nobody is bothering him and he can work on whatever he wants, not whatever Howard wants, but on the other hand he’s not sure which is better; Howard’s constant sarcastic acknowledgement or sitting alone in his room trying to work the emptiness away. He feels so cold and tired all the time, he knows it’s not normal. He wishes Howard would at least talk to him, or hit him. At least it’s human contact. 

 

It’s Friday, and Tony doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s gone and skipped school. After being constantly glared at and demoralised by a livid Hammer (Tony, as usual, doesn’t know what he did,) for a whole week, he’s done. He’s tired, people are tired of him, and in retrospect it seemed like a much, much better idea in the morning. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he would be desperate enough to get Howard to hit and hurt him just s he isn’t ignored all the time.

 

He feels terrible, but the good thing is that his and Natasha’s history project has finally come to an end, and there is no longer a) reason for him to hang around the group b) risk of screwing up Natasha’s grades and making them all hate him c) - well, there is no c, really. He doesn’t even know if it’s a good or bad thing. He doesn’t know anymore.

 

But what has been done has been done and he will just have to bear the consequences of an angry Howard. Tony wraps his arms around himself and swallows. What if Howard still doesn’t acknowledge him? What if he’s past caring about Tony’s education and career because Tony has lost worth to him, even as an heir? His stomach clenches in fear. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have gone all out to get attention for his pathetic, starved skin. He’s doing just fine, and Howard is doing just fine without him. He doesn’t know anymore.

 

He hears Howard’s car pulling up outside and briefly wonders how Howard will even know that he’s skipped school, but that’s a mystery he hasn’t been able to solve and Howard somehow always, always knows, even when he’s actively trying to hide it.

 

Tony can’t believe how pathetic he is, how low he’s fallen. He’s seeking pain, tears and hurt just for a speck of attention and contact, even if it’s negative and does nothing for his already messed up mental health. He considers going out and sitting on the steps, but that’s probably overkill - Howard would know he’s looking for attention. Just begging to be kicked down the steps, in addition, and he doesn’t want that.

 

He hears the front door open, hears Howard moving around downstairs. He swallows again, threads of fear winding themselves around his abdomen. The breeze coming in through the window makes him shiver, even though it’s more cooling than cold. He wishes Howard would hurry up. 

  
  
  
  


Tony doesn’t come to school today, and Nat wishes to know why. They received their grade (pretty quickly, too) and she has been on the lookout for him all day, but he’s a no-show, even in their combined classes.

 

“No, I have not seen him,” Clint tells her before she even opens her mouth.

 

Nat smiles a little. Clint likes to guess what she wants to say, and he’ll be getting a big head about it one of these days. “I wasn’t going to ask that,” she says. “How did you do for History, Mr. Barton?”

 

Clint breathes out an exaggerated exhale. “Pretty good, but pretty bad,” he says cryptically. “Naat, tell me yours first.”

 

“Pretty good, pretty bad,” Natasha parrots. “I’m just kidding. We did amazing.”

 

“You did, huh?” Clint says. “I figured, or you wouldn’t be looking for him all day. I don’t think he came today, it sucks but it’s true.”

 

Clint is probably happy, she thinks spitefully, that she won’t get to share her joy with Tony today. She doesn’t know what he has against Tony.

 

Unprompted, Clint goes on. “Buck and I got a B,” he says, pulling a sour face. “Could be worse, I guess, but I don’t know what I was hoping for. We really winged that one.” He looks at her to see her nodding absently, not really in the conversation. 

 

“Clint, I have- I wanna -something I have to-”

 

“I’ll see you at home, then?”

 

“Oh, yeah, you go ahead first,” she says, and he knows her well enough to be aware that she’s up to something, and that he really shouldn’t interfere. So he wraps an arm around her and presses his lips chastely to her forehead before heading down the road to the bus stop.

 

Nat smiles absently, rubbing at her long fingers semi-nervously. She might go to the Library, try to corner Tony there and ask what’s wrong. But he could be at home, and maybe he’s sick. She doesn’t want to go and see his huge fancy mansion anyway, but something is wrong with Tony, has been wrong with Tony these few days and being Natasha, she can’t let it go. She pulls out her phone and fires a quick text to him: “Can I head over to your place for a bit to hand the assignment to you?”

 

She waits for a couple minutes and when there is no reply, decides that it’s getting late and Tony wouldn’t be mad at her for turning up unsolicited, right? He isn’t the kind to get mad, and Nat can’t imagine him getting mad at all. She knows where he lives (who doesn’t?) and to be frank about it, she’s curious. Very curious.

 

Stark Mansion is on a rather isolated road that forks off from the park lane, giving it a nice view of shrubbery on one side and being far away enough to be quiet at night. It’s looming and modern, with glass panes, cleanly-painted black walls with a garden, and brings all kinds of exterior design magazine vibes. It sure looks fancy, but Nat can’t imagine living in it and not in Clint’s tiny apartment with their pillow forts and static-spluttering TV.

 

She crosses the road and looks at it. The front gate is open, which is strange, but just nice for her. There are two of Howard Stark’s many cars in the garage, one sleek and red, the other simply black, but obviously expensive. One car for leisure and one for work, then. The garage door is also open, but the front door is closed tight and she doesn’t think that she’s welcome. There is a doorbell, and Nat walks through the gate and up to it, bringing her hand up to ring-

 

-okay. She chickens out.

 

What if Howard Stark opens the door? He sure wouldn’t be happy about it. She’s honestly surprised that there are no security guards or anything, and that the gate is open wide. She is very sure she won’t be welcome here, whether it be Howard or Tony Stark who opens the door.

 

And then she hears movement, and they’re actually coming towards her, towards the door where she is standing with her hand up and braced on the doorbell like a moron, and Natasha freaks out. She turns and the first thing she sees is the open garage door and she ducks in, her heart jumping a little when the bright red and sleek black appear in her vision up-close. The garage light is on, and she jerks a little at the thought that someone might be here with her, but there is nobody. She sits down behind the red car and takes a deep breath, trying to stabilise herself. There have to be cameras here, right? What if Howard was coming down to see her? What if she’s suspicious now? She can always say she’s Tony’s classmate- Tony would defend her, wouldn’t he?

 

The front door opens and Nat listens closely, cursing herself under her breath for her stupidity. Clint always said her stupid investigations would get her into trouble, and it looks like that prophecy is about to come true. The footsteps get louder and they come into - dear God, they come into the garage - Nat scrambles, trying to get further away, somewhere deep inside her noting that she should probably stand up and explain herself to the person to be less suspicious - but she can’t, and she may be leading herself into more trouble than she already is in-

 

Something moves, and a door is opened. Nat stills, and hears a very, very clear sound, a little whimper that tears at her heartstrings. She- oh, she recognises it, recognises the sound as something she’s never heard before but can easily identify it as-

 

“Why are you still here?” the newcomer says, and his voice is deep and harsh and male and Howard Stark, her brain identifies. He’s also angry. 

 

She hears Tony make a small noise of desperation, and holds her breath as there is no sound for the next few minutes. Then something slams, so loud that she automatically ducks her head to cover her ears, and there’s something rattling violently, the harsh sounds echoing around the garage and making her head hurt. Then the sound of a key turning in a lock, silence again, and the footsteps go out.

 

Heart thudding erratically, Natasha stays behind the red car. Her back is pressed to the place where the body of the car meets the tire, and it’s uncomfortable, but she can’t bring herself to move. Sweat is running down her legs and neck, and she’s surprised Howard Stark hasn’t heard her terrified breathing. After a safe while she stands up on shaky legs. There is nobody in the room, and she starts to wonder if she’s hallucinating.

 

Then she sees the cabinet in the corner, and her stomach twists in on itself. It can’t be… it’s barely big enough to fit a person, and Howard wouldn’t- Howard wouldn’t-

 

The key has been thrown haphazardly on the floor, and Natasha scrambles for it. She looks up and immediately spots a camera on the ceiling, which spurs her to move faster, her pulse skyrocketing. She slots the key into the lock on the cabinet and turns.

 

Tony tumbles out, his arms and legs flopping everywhere. His eyes are closed and his chin is smudged with blood where he has bitten his lip; there is a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead and Nat can see bruises on his wrists and some peeking out from under the hem of his shirt, which has ridden up. She stumbles backwards, dazed, until her back meets the cold wall and she slumps to a sitting position, heart hammering away in her ribcage, horrified and shocked and praying please no, no, please don’t let it be real-

 

She watches detachedly as Tony jerks a little, sees his eyes flutter, then slip shut and he goes limp, making her realise how tense he was before, curled up into an awkward little ball in order to even fit inside the cabinet. She wants to throw up.

 

It takes a while for her stomach to stop clenching and she gets up, padding quietly to Tony. He doesn’t react, eyes closed tight enough that there are lines of tension in his eyebrows and around his nose, hands shaking where they are huddled protectively to his chest. His legs are bent at unnatural angles and she adjusts them, trying to make sure nothing is broken. She wants to check below his shirt but that’s an apparent breach of privacy and it doesn’t look like there’s anything worse than bruises. Nothing on his face - Howard is careful, isn’t he? - and that thought sparks anger in her, making her snap back into efficient mode.

 

She pulls her phone out and calls Clint, feeding her arm behind Tony’s shoulders and pulling him upright, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear. 

 

“Nat? When are you gonna be back home?”

 

“I need you,” she says simply. “I need you to take the car and be here at Stark Mansion. Not here, directly, maybe - maybe the park, one street over, but please - come quickly, and I need the car.”

 

“Jeez, Nat… OK.” 

 

She hangs up and gently pulls Tony closer to her. The moment he feels something against him he unconsciously reaches out, making tiny murmuring noises of protest when she pulls back. Fuck, she can feel herself starting to cry. Struggling minutely, she pulls him to his feet and hoists him up. Tony’s eyes flutter again and he makes a confused sound.

 

“Hey, Tony,” she murmurs quietly, hoping she sounds reassuring and not cold like she usually is. She really needs to catch up on all those years of not-nice behavior. 

 

Tony frowns, perplexed and not really conscious enough to panic that Natasha is looking at him. “Going, going now…” he mutters, “no more, ‘m going now, sir yes sir, I’m goin’ now.”

 

“Can you walk?” she asks, tugging lightly at him. He takes an unsteady step and she braces herself as he stumbles onto her, thanking the deities that Tony is small and underweight.

 

“Walk? ‘M, yes, can walk,” Tony murmurs, getting his feet under him and stumbling to the garage door, still leaning heavily on her. She doesn’t know what has him so out of it, unless he’s hurt much worse than she’s seen, and she hopes not. His shirt is damp with sweat where her hand is braced, supporting the small of his back.

 

She hopes Clint is here soon. The gate is still open, somehow, and she practically drags Tony to it as he deliriously stammers under his breath. She almost gets a heart attack when the gates close behind them once they pass through, but then it’s probably programmed to do that, right? She tries not to think of Howard Stark watching them through the cameras.

 

Tony goes silent, staring at the floor and swaying against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (edit) my exams just ended i’m sORry okay


End file.
